


Fur & Steel

by TobyRosetta, xxdeejadoodlexx



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal, Bottom!Stiles, Knight Derek, Knotting, Laura Lives, M/M, Magic Stiles, Medieval AU, Mpreg, Oral, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Derek, Prince Stiles, Rimming, Romance, Season 1 Compliant, Season 2 compliant, Season 3a compliant, Top!Derek, Violence, Warrior Derek, gerard is still an asshole, vegetarian stiles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2014-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-25 13:02:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 98,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TobyRosetta/pseuds/TobyRosetta, https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxdeejadoodlexx/pseuds/xxdeejadoodlexx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is the last of the Hale bloodline, his kingdom burned to the ground from the witch he mistakenly believed to be an angel. Years later he hears many tales of the Crucible and all its violent, fatal  glory. He seeks it in hopes that it'll aid him in ending his lonely existence. Only, he's really good at it. </p><p>A chance meeting has the handsome and alluring Prince Stiles bantering for his attention when no one else dares to venture near him.</p><p>Why can't Derek seem to turn him away? Why can't Stiles stop himself from trying?</p><p>As their relationship deepens, and their lives twist together, they will come to face immeasurable trials and tribulations. At least they can face them together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this came to me in a dream and wouldn't go away, so I begged the great and powerful Goddess Toby to collab with me. We hope you enjoy! You can contact either of us on our individual tumblrs.  
> [ xxdeejadoodlexx](http://xxdeejadoodlexx.tumblr.com/)  
> [ TobyRosetta](http://tobyrosetta.tumblr.com)

Fire licks at his skin. The heat of it feels as if it’s melting the flesh from his bone. He screams as he fails to do anything. The flames are too thick, already crumbling the foundation of his home. The howls of pain from his family ring through his ears. He howls back keening in the soul-breaking tenor of a man watching all he loves burn. He’s frantic, wanting to run in and pull them out but they’re so deep inside. The castle they call home is too large and his family is so far spread out. He knows he can’t save them. He knows it’s too late. His skin is slowly healing from where he’s already been burned and singed from trying. The clarity of this realization stings his eyes as his claws protrude and his gums burn as his fangs elongate.

He runs, pacing around looking for anyway inside that hasn’t already turned to rubble from the hellfire that consumes his home. Consuming his family. His parents, cousins, every person that he had spent his life with.

He feels them. Their burning skin. The stench of their pain and fear choking him. He falls to the ground, his eyes wide and his heart flayed. He screams. He screams for them. He wants to say he’s sorry. He wants to trade himself. It should be him inside that burning kingdom but it makes no difference. The damage is done. The fire is claiming their souls.

Tears stream down his face, leaving startlingly clear tracks of moisture in the soot that stains his skin, his fists slamming into the ground.

They’re dying. They’re burning into nothing and he can hear his mother scream for him. It feels like he’s drowning. He can’t breath as he watches. He howls back. He can’t do this; can’t watch the flames of bright oranges and reds. Smell the ash and burning flesh. Listen to the rumble of fire and screams of his family dying, but he can’t turn away. He keeps howling, hoping they can hear him. Hoping they understand how sorry he is. How regretful and ashamed that his ignorance cost them their lives.

Even the moon has forsaken him this night, the smoke rising into the sky blocking out it’s silver glow.

It should be him. It should be him. 

He knows why this happened. He knows how. And it sickens him, the taste of bile and acid sitting on his tongue, thick as he retches dryly into the soil below him. How could he have thought it was just innocent-- That nothing would come of it?  
All that he feels is a swelling rage, and a burgeoning self loathing. He brought this upon his family. He’d been warned to stay away from... _Her_. That siren of despair. The root of sorrow and the red hands that were stained with his families blood. They had tainted his the same scarlet, when her fingers had entwined with his own in the dark of the night’s shadows. He could practically feel her mirth on him like a greasy film. Her joy at this chaos. Hell was too good for her. 

That murdering Witch; A snake in angel's guise. 

He throws his head back, lungs filling to howl again, but instead he screams, the sound of a broken man. His voice gasping into sobs. Chest heaving with pain.  
He’s suddenly pulled from his thoughts when he realizes he can’t hear them anymore. Their frantic hearts muffled by the loud rumbling of the fire; of his foolishness.

That’s when he knows. He knows they’re gone. He can’t feel them through the bond they all once shared. He’s empty and alone. Destroyed just as much as the husk that will remain when the flames die out. Ashed and dark like the stone and wood and charred remains of his home. 

His kingdom. _His family_.

His claws rake against the dirt as he roars. He feels feral. Nothing keeping him anchored to his humanity. He barely feels the tears still falling from his eyes as he watches in rage and sadness.

Everything is gone and he is at fault.

It should have been him.

* * *

Derek woke in a startle. His body lurched forward as his eyes seared a vibrant, icy blue. He scanned his surroundings, panting in lungfuls of air, vision hazy and hindered. His hand came to his cheek and immediately felt a slick, wet trail as the strong scent of saline filled his nostrils. He scratched at his skin as a prickling anger bubbled from within him. He looked to his right, from the pallet he’d made for himself, to see the trail of his claws, clear and fresh in the dirt beside him. He had been dreaming of it again.

He quickly wiped the scratchy wool blanket over his face in a rush to rid his skin of the moisture. He breathed in deeply, calming his hammering heart. His eyes slowly faded back into something more human as he let out a weary sigh.

Derek took a moment to let the grogginess ease from his mind before looking over at the dying embers of the campfire he had lit the night before. The stench of ash offended his senses, threatening to pull back the memories of his dream. He snarled and slashed at the ebbing fire; watched as the wood puffed and broke in brilliant splinters sending cinders into the air. His claws retracted finally, as he watched the scorching red skin on his hand heal quickly from touching the hot remains of the flames.

Collecting himself and forcing the raw, raging anger back into the confines of his mind, he stood and stretched. The sound of his joints popping and shifting echoed in his ears. It was then that he noticed the rays of light beginning to transpire in the distance. The dark black of night slowly giving way to morning’s glorious gold and cerulean. It meant nothing to him but another day of his hellish life; stars disappearing from the sky like the lives of his family. 

He made quick work of his things, packing the site and pulling on his hulking, black armor. His weapon easily found it’s way into his hand. The long and heavy weight of the mirrored poleaxe felt familiar and comfortable in his grip. The head of his weapon was massive and intimidating, often stained with the blood of his fallen enemies. He had cleaned it the night before, the thick grime and strong copper stench distracted him enough to finally take notice. Derek hooked it to the strap on his back where it hung tight to his armor before turning and heading west.

Derek was a drifter. The many years after the tragic demise of his kingdom had left him without a direction or home. The people of Vilkas slowly bled away from the once prosperous, but private domain. With their rulers fallen, there was no one left to take up the mantle. No one to guide or nurture and lead. The kingdom was in ruin without it’s beloved figureheads. The royal Hale family had been an ancient line which had always ruled their people with a firm hand, and true care for their people.

Naturally, Derek was in line to take up the throne-- to be King. Yet on that fateful night, he fled without a second thought of looking back. After the flames had begun to settle, his mind had suddenly snapped and he ran blindly through the surrounding forests, attacking anything that stood in his path. With the sorrow and grief turning into rage and hate he let out the beast within; clawing and killing any creature that he caught sight of. For days he was little more than a wild animal. Hardly anyone fit to be a king. Not that it weighed on his mind. Ruling had never been his destiny. It was not his instinct to lead, and he had no idea how to give his people the ruler they deserved. Not with the rage that consumed his every thought.

Over the years he had done questionable things. Working as a hired hand. Helpful strength when one needed something done that was less than holy, but Derek was sick of it. Already trying to contend himself to something when he feels he shouldn’t be allowed to feel anything at all. He had managed to harness his anger, and malice into an anchor. A means of controlling himself. He no longer felt like he would lose control around masses of innocent people.

That’s why when he heard of the arena, The Crucible of blood and death, a place of glory and battle. It was now his destination. Not because he desired such mundane things as money or glory, but because he was a coward and couldn’t find it within himself to let his life end. He thought to himself that this arena, where they say the strongest warriors of the world come to kill, could be the place to meet his demise. Somewhere he could battle with his full strength and possibly be overcome. That is why he sought it. To meet with the chance of dying in blood, and pain, like his family. What he believed he deserved.

It wasn’t difficult for him to acquire information about the arena. Apparently the Crucible was something of a commodity. Derek had briefly wondered how he hadn’t caught wind of it before.

It lay in the Kingdom of Belirti. He heard the people speak highly of this place. Much on its beauty and strong King, but no other topic was mentioned more, than the young and gentle prince. The prince and his unfathomable benevolence and kindness. The men mostly spoke of his mischievous nature; the pranks and troubles the young boy found himself tangled in. The women gossip about his beautiful, porcelain skin. His warm, doe eyes and his cunning smile. The way he stopped to flirt with common women and nobles alike.

By the time he had learned all he could of Belirti, Derek had heard so much of the prince that he faintly felt as though he already knew him. In the back of his mind, he hoped he never did. From the stories he had overheard when passing from town to village, the boy was nothing but trouble. His dastardly jokes and mischief sounded like a headache. More than he had the patience to deal with. 

When he found himself at his destination, he didn’t waste time looking for shelter or supplies to sustain himself. The moment Derek stepped into the bounds of the kingdom his senses were assaulted by the stench of battle; blood and sweat and death. His mind was instantly set on the singularity of the arena.

Derek would never admit to himself, but in the final moments before he was unleashed unto the arena, his body was bustling with more energy than he thought it could muster. The anticipation warmed his blood. The cheers of the people when he walked onto the scarlet-soaked dirt of the Crucible only served to thrill him more. He ignored the sound of the spectators and let the beast inside himself take over. With his armor thick and his helmet concealing his face, he could allow himself to shift beneath the safety of the plate without fear of them knowing his secret of being a werewolf. So he did. 

What he didn’t do, was die.

Time passed and Derek never missed a chance to thrust himself back into the arena. He was known to all now as the Black Wolf. The name would be offensive if it wasn’t so amusing. Although, none took a liking to him, not that he cared. His stoic, apathetic, and hostile behavior had painted him in a negative light. That and the fact that he brutally destroyed all who stood before him within the confines of The Crucible.

He should have felt bad. He knew he should, but he didn’t. He let himself become consumed. Let all of the pain and the sorrow ebb away, ripped from the deepest parts of himself through the yells and exhaustion. The ultimatum that was live or die. It made him feel numb and that was what he wanted. That was the reason he was there. To stop feeling. To stop remembering. He didn’t care anymore about how at the end of the battle, when he’s victorious, that the people boo and throw things. That they hated him. Where he thought it would bring him anger, he only found apathy. None of it meant anything. The Crucible was his escape from the past. A place where he let his instincts take over as he fought for his life; self-preservation too commanding to ignore. A place where he covered his boots in scarlet mud and sunk the blade of his glaive into body after body, turning them into corpses. Someone probably kept count of how many he had killed, but to him it was just a blurr. 

A year passed and he had carved himself a familiar routine. Derek was able to purchase a place of his own, a small and unsightly home. It was poor and dirty, though, like everything else in his life, it didn’t matter. He was famously reclusive and barely left his den during the hours of daylight. Not that there was anyone for him to visit. The people of the kingdom snickered and sneered at his back, too cowardly to do it to his face. The stench of their fear permeated the air and offended his sensitive nose. At one point they had figured out who he was. The only remaining Hale. Derek was not sure how they came to acquire the facts, but it didn’t change the undeniable truth they had. Perhaps some of the citizens of Vilkas had migrated to the kingdom?

It didn’t take long before harmless town gossip was twisted and distorted into bold assumptions. They began to believe that Derek was the one who started the fire. That his unstable mind had driven him mad, or that he lusted after the throne. It was all said in hushed whispers, far from what normal human hearing could catch. Derek wasn’t human though, not really, and he had been cursed with the ability to hear everything; smell the accusations as if they were yelling it at his face.

He didn’t bother to correct them. He couldn’t find the energy and he wasn’t sure he’d be convincing to his own ears. Derek honestly found it fitting that the rumors had transpired, painting him as the perpetrator. Some ironic message from God that it was his fault. If he had never trusted _her_ then there wouldn’t have been a fire. His family would be alive. He had committed the act of trust. Against all rational thought, he had fallen under a spell. Certain in his belief that it wasn’t induced by magic, but of his own ignorance. So he didn’t let himself deny their malicious claims. He wouldn’t allow himself be known as the victim, because he didn’t feel like one.

He felt like a murderer. A betrayer.

Still, he did allow himself runs through the surrounding woods at night. Letting the wolf inside out as he ran until his muscles were strained and burning-- lungs aching with every heaved breath. He liked to listen to the sounds of the forest, of the trees swaying, of the creatures stirring and fleeing. The scent of the earth, of the vegetation and the damp moisture that was always there. It was natural and soothing and he let himself have that moment. That calm and reassuring ritual of just enjoying nature; of letting himself break loose and _feel_ again.

However, that is not to say that he never associated with the town.

There was always plenty of opportunity for distraction. Gossip of town, lively gatherings of men at the tavern every night, bellowing in laughter over something or other. More often than naught, he heard mentions of great pranks. Jokes that took the town by surprise; with mirth. The prince was always at the root. An elusive young man who had a distinct lack of respect for authority. A boy who Derek often heard ladies crowded on the streets tittering about with soft sighs and distant expressions. Wanton. It was something Derek desperately strived to ignore, and for the most part, he succeeded. It was of no consequence to him, what happened in this kingdom. If it didn't involve his blade, and his enemies’ blood, he wasn't interested.

His obsession with the arena didn’t stop the nightmares. Could not stop the constant ache in his chest when he awoke, gasping in air with the phantom smell of burning flesh and ash in his nose. He often thought of his family and how their lives would be if they hadn’t died. The Crucible was deceitful in that nature. Within the dome of death he could detach himself from the world around him. In those moments nothing mattered but the clashing of weapons and the defeat of his enemies; the thundering cadence of his heart and the adrenaline so overbearing it felt as though he was on a high. When it was all over, he was always left with the hollow realization that there was nothing waiting for him outside the arena’s gates. Again, he wished someone would come along strong enough to ruin him and end the vicious cycle.

Through every victory he had been offered pounds of gold for his victories, but Derek never took the prize. That wasn’t why he was there. That wasn’t the reason he chose to fight. They always looked at him as though he was an imbecile. He was often called a stupid animal. It made him want to bare his fangs and snarl but he couldn’t allow them to get such a rise. He would never risk the exposure of his true nature of being a werewolf. He knew that the peoples of the town had forgotten about the existence of such creatures. Humans were an isolated and ignorant breed that selfishly drew into themselves and ignored the other species of the world until they had faded into nothing more than legends and myths.

Always, he walked away to the edge of the town towards his broken and dirty den. It was the same on that day. A long, lonely trudge through the streets. He was always given wide berth, never touching another body.

Then, someone crashed into him. 

The sound of his armor rattling irritated his ears. Derek immediately caught the figure by the arm, ready to attack if need be, but the sight he was met with took him off guard. Before he could even lay eyes on the person, his hand tingled as if it were on the verge of numbness. His eyes locked seconds later on the other’s visage. In his grasp was a boy. Not much older than what would be seventeen years. He struggled to free himself of Derek’s grip. The notion was futile. 

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry” The boy said in a haste, but Derek was barely listening, too tantalized by his wide honeyed eyes. The glow of his perfectly creamy skin wasn’t even disrupted by it’s speckles; a spatter of dark spots. They seemed so unique, yet they made perfect sense. Dear _God_ his scent. His scent was... heavenly. Literally like _ambrosia_. He couldn’t quite describe it. Overpowering, it made Derek’s mind hazy and his mouth salivate. Everything about this boy made his focus center in completely on him, pushing everything into the background. Colors were more vibrant on him, his features more defined than any Derek had seen in years. He felt as though if he stared long enough, he would see colors that no one else knew existed.

Derek must have been too caught up in his dumbfounded observation of this stranger, for the boy somehow broke free of his grip. He backed away slowly, his attention not on Derek but of something behind him. Derek finally felt like he could make himself listen to something other than the male’s enticing heartbeat. He heard fast, heavy steps quickly approaching. His mind instantly supplied the familiarity of the sounds he knew now as the kingdom’s guards. They were running towards them, an onslaught of ‘halt’ and ‘stop’ being yelled in their direction. The young stranger slowly backed away, gaze flicking from Derek to the guards and then back again.

“Sorry about that. Really. Sorry.” He said, then turned around and was suddenly running away.

Derek stood there, staring in the direction that the enigmatic boy ran long after he and the guards vanished from view. Even after the sight of them were gone, he felt an urge, as if he were on the tip of his toes, straining at a leash to follow after. He settled back on his heels and mulled over the strange coiling in his gut. As if that encounter was a _something_ and he was trying so deeply to force it to be a _nothing_. 

Nothing was what he desperately sought to keep it as, throughout the rest of the day. He continued his walk home, with no more disruptions, left only to his thoughts. For something that was nothing, he spent an awful lot of time thinking about it. Who was that young man? A thief? What if it had been-- 

_No_. Derek shook his head and sighed, tilting it back to allow fresh air to flood his mouth and lungs. He exhaled roughly. _I will not dwell on this_.

He did, though. 

His shanty waited for him, faithful in it’s destitute appearance. The one thing he could count on. So why was he half expecting to see someone standing there, when he opened the door? There was no one, and for some reason, the slow exhale of breath that left his nose was not one of relief, but of anxiety.

* * *

Stiles was running. The breaths heaving from his burning lungs were sharp and painful, but the grin plastered on his features was undeterred. Sure, his latest escapade may have been a little more harsh than usual, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t just as hilarious as he had imagined it being.

He chanced a glance at the guards behind him. They were a safe distance away and Stiles knew this kingdom like the back of his hand. He grew up here, he should know. Being the prince also had its perks. He had snuck into his fathers tactical study and memorized the kingdoms layouts. He knew every last nook and cranny of Belirti. He was more than confident that he’d safely make it back to his chambers before they could slander him with accusations.

However, the smug, self-satisfied smirk was melted from his face when his person abruptly came into contact with a stone wall. At least, it felt like a stone wall. 

He was quickly grabbed by the arm, a vice grip that was unshakable, holding him captive. Stiles' head immediately snapped to focus and glanced upon a man. The stranger’s face was etched in annoyance or perhaps anger, though Stiles didn’t spend too much time looking. His eyes had barely grazed over his features, before jerking back to look over the man’s shoulder. His main focus was the guards that were quickly gaining on him.

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” He tried. Hoping to convey his false sincerity. Not to say he didn’t feel bad for bumping into this stranger, but he didn’t have time to linger on formalities. If he were to be brought to his father, the King, once again in bindings, he’d be grounded to his insufferable tower for weeks. That was absolutely unacceptable. If anyone knew Prince Stiles, they’d know he didn’t bode well with being bound to a simple room.

His eyes finally snapped back to the man and instantly he felt some strange and savage aura. An overpowering radiation of fierce, wild and untamed energy saturated the atmosphere around him; this warrior in all black armor.

It wasn’t uncommon for Stiles to be in tune with the people and world around him. His mother had always told him he had a special gift. That empathy was a blessing from the Mother Goddess and should be nurtured. Never before had he been so overcome, though, so dominated by the aura of another. During his younger years, his mother had taught him to control the flow of energies and emotions of the people surrounding him. He was more than confident in his abilities, but there was something so strangely different about this man. For all his control, the man’s aura was bleeding out onto him, clawing around the prince like a beast.

Stiles took a keen, perceiving look over his features, taking him in. He was highly attractive, that much was certain, though clearly daunting with his stature and unforgiving, piercing glare. Stiles felt as though he should know who this man was, that he had once met or heard of him. It was no secret that he had a certain weakness for town gossip. It was possible that this stranger was a topic of interest at one time. Stiles’ vision veered to the obvious crest on the man’s ebony armor. Etched into his left shoulder pad was the silhouette of a shadowy wolf howling up into a blood red moon. It immediately caught his attention. 

He wanted to say he knew something about that. It was at the front of his mind, lingering somewhere behind a corner; the name of it at the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t quite grasp the revelation.

The shouts of the guards ripped him from his contemplations and his thoughts were instantly drowned out by an overwhelming panic. Thankfully, the man seemed to have taken mercy on him for his grip had loosened enough for him to wriggle his arm free. Stiles pulled the entrapped limb back to himself, thankful to the high heavens and the Goddess above for the man’s clemency.

“Sorry about that. Really. Sorry.” The prince reiterated, and then he turned and ran.

He made it back to the castle through the back entrance the maids often used when leaving the kitchens. He found his way to his room with a proper walk and a smirk to match. Stiles felt smug and accomplished, having escaped the guards and pulled off yet another amazing prank put him in high spirits. Perhaps it was childish to constantly annoy the guards with his unrelenting acts of defiant mischief, but the prince was a bit selfish. The joy he felt as he watched them fumble about feebly made his days all the more bearable. Being a prince had to have been the most boring form of existence. He needed _something_ to excite him.

That wasn't to say that the prince was a mere petulant child that did nothing more than play childish pranks. He could often be found helping around the kingdom, despite his noble blood. Even going so far as to donate vasts amounts of gold to the peoples. For all the prince would try to exude an air of flippancy, no one could deny his benevolence and selfless nature.

Once his breathing had relapsed to the standard, he found himself climbing the stairs to the tower that led to his own personal chambers. Stiles let himself in and made to collapse onto his bed. He shouldn’t have been surprised when he was immediately confronted by his personal vassal. 

“Where have you been?” The young male yelled. Stiles narrowed his eyes, but his expression remained soft.

“Is that any way to talk to your prince?” He said in tease. 

The thing about his vassal was he was no meager servant. At least not to Stiles. He had known Scott for as many years as he could remember. The vassal’s family served his mother and father. Stiles had many fond memories of them playing together. Usually such a thing wouldn’t have been acceptable; royalty consorting with peasants, but Stiles’ mother was truly a beautiful soul. She never let social stigmas and bloodlines come between the bonds of two people. She fought and argued with his father, going against his word on many occasions so that Stiles could spend time with Scott. He had thanked her every day that she had, for as a child, Stiles was lonely and barely interacted with others. His father was overprotective, understandable for a parent, but it only served in isolating the prince. Without his mother’s constant defiance, his life might have been empty without even Scott. More importantly, after his mother’s death if it weren’t for the friendship he had with Scott, he didn’t know how he would have lived on.

Queen Moira was everything to Stiles and when disease took her, his whole world shattered. His father fell into a dark depression leaving Stiles to fend for himself. However, Scott was always there for him for every day and every moment. Scott was like a gift from his mother who had fought so hard to allow their friendship to blossom. It goes without saying that Stiles never treated Scott like any sort of slave. They only fell into the customary formation when they were around others.

“Oh, apologies, my dear, sweet, perfectly, perfect humble prince” Scott retorted, all sarcasm with a slight bow. “Now where the hell were you?” He ended in demand. Stiles couldn’t help but laugh. 

“I was doing what I do best, you could say.” That was all he needed to divulge. Scott had already begun to make the face that he usually donned when he was picturing all the troublesome deeds the prince enjoyed bestowing unto the guard daily. Stiles’ smirk faltered as he sighed. He knew his friend was about to attempt a reprimand and he really wasn’t in the mood to sit through it. So in a desperate search for distraction, he broached an event he hadn’t been able to wipe from his mind.

“And I met a man.” He finished with a new, wistful grin. That seemed to catch Scott’s full attention, diverting a disastrous lecture on proper prince etiquette and how awful it was to leave the safety of the castle. Stiles really didn’t want to listen to that for the eleven-billionth time.

“A man? Whom? A Nobleman?” The vassal inquired, looking deeply intrigued and more than slightly concerned. Stiles finally slumped onto his bed, the many pillows softening his landing. He grabbed the nearest one and held it closely to his chest.

“I’m not sure. He is a mystery to me. I’ve never seen him before today.” It was odd, to say the least. Despite being the prince of Belirti, a royal who should stay within the walls of the castle, that had never before stopped Stiles from consorting with just about everyone in the kingdom. If he was honest, he didn’t really like the feeling of superiority. He just wanted to do what was right and to him that meant being with the people. It was just like his mother always said. 

_You have to know the needs of your people and be one with them._

Yet, Stiles wasn’t sure who this man was. He had never seen him before and that mystery alone was tantalizing. Most troubling yet, there was something so alluring about him. Obvious physical attractions aside, there was a confounding magnitude. The sight of him left the prince with questions that were begging to be answered. He was at war with his own curiosity.

His gaze veered back over to his friend who looked perplexed and concerned. He let out another heavy sigh.

“What’s on the _royal_ schedule, Scott?” Stiles asked, finally changing the subject. He made sure to stress in tone his disinterest in his duties as prince. Scott seemed to know that too, which is why, despite his best friend being so vapid, he eyed him with suspicion. Scott reached for a stack of parchment and began to read things off. Internally Stiles kept up his inward mantra of _boring, boring, boring_. His friend seemed to notice and tossed the parchment back onto the table.

“And your father says that you’re to attend The Crucible tomorrow.” Now that definitely caught Stiles’ attention. He sat up and glared at his best friend. Scott was wearing a mischievously placate grin, most likely due to his obvious knowledge of Stiles’ extreme detest of the arena. Which is why, after a few moments of carefully dull silence, he practically whined his displeasure.

“But _why_?” He stretched for enunciation. “Father knows how I loathe that dreaded place. It’s just a bunch of overly masculine imbeciles chopping each other to pieces with wicked finesse! It’s not only barbaric, but it’s a horrible waste of perfectly chiseled men.” He pouted a little towards the end of his rant. Not enough to be seen as childish, just enough to maybe be misconstrued as something along the lines of a fuss.

Scott shook his head, but kept his smirk firmly in place, the ever evil vassal he was. 

“I don’t make up the rules here, that’s your father’s job.” Stiles, yet again, let out a heavy breath.

“I wish to trade him for a new one.” He joked with feigned exhaustion. “I don’t suppose there is any way for me to get out of this?” Stiles asked, a little too hopeful. Scott shook his head.

“Afraid not. He was quite adamant that you attend. Something about keeping you out of trouble? I wonder where he could have gotten the idea that you need to be contained?” Scott turned to tidy up whatever of the room that was dirty, which was to say, hardly anything. It was more of a means to keep his hands busy and show that there really was no point in arguing, the discussion was as final as it was ever going to be.

“Fine. But you’re coming with me, whether he allows it or otherwise. I’ll not suffer through this on my own.” Stiles levied. Scott delivered a brilliant smile, most likely happy that Stiles wasn't fighting him more on the topic like he normally would. It was also probably because his friend enjoyed that horrible sport. 

The Crucible attracted many spectators. People came thousands of miles from distant kingdoms to partake and view. The men had a certain fancy with it, placing bets and watching the violence with exuberant amusement. The women seemed to have their own motives on the event. 

The prince was usually far more insubordinate, and he would be fighting tooth and nail to not attend. However, he really had been neglecting his father, more likely because they didn't always see eye-to-eye these days. Stiles followed closely in the steps of the late Queen, choosing to align himself with compassion and a discerning mind. His father wanted him to rule with an iron fist. Stiles was hardly one for violence, choosing instead to nurture and approach issues with pacifism in mind, just like his mother.

He decided that he would humor his father for this. He didn't really have to _watch_ the fights, he could occupy his attention elsewhere. Perhaps he’d be able to sneak in a book? Or if he couldn't, then at least he might be able to admire some of the fighters physiques before they were hacked into? Stiles often considered strong men with admiration. A part of him wished he could be like that. Big and sturdy; someone the people trusted inherently. Then, he remembered, how much responsibility that would be, and felt relief for his own tendency towards politics and scholarly pursuits. By this time in his life, he was resigned to his fate. Stiles knew that he would never be a daring soldier, musclebound with flowing hair that made people faint and squeal. Not that he _actually_ wanted that. 

As it was, it seemed that tomorrow, he would attend The Crucible, and for that he may as well _attempt_ to enjoy himself.


	2. Chapter 2

“We need to go back.” Scott whispered. “If the king finds that I’ve let you back here he’ll have my head!”

Stiles rolled his eyes but ignored his friend and peered around the corner. He knew as well as Scott that being anywhere near the holding room was forbidden, especially for someone of royal blood. Being in the company of murderous warriors was a dangerous notion, even for someone as foolhardy as Stiles. However, his curiosity had always gotten the best of him, so why should it stay him now?

“I’m serious Stiles, please! Let us go back before someone notices!” his friend tried again, his tone laced with exasperation.

“I’m only curious. Stop being such a ninny, no one will even know we’re here” Stiles replied. He was most fascinated by the warriors, his disdain of the Crucible aside. When he was younger, he had always imagined that he was a dashing hero in brilliant gold armour, slaying dragons and evils alike. It was a fantasy that he even visited now, though he would hide such childish dreams.

The prince was immediately focused on the many men donning their nigh impenetrable protective coverings. The most of them were easily forgotten; armor bland and commonplace. Swords and miscellaneous other terrifying weapons littered the walls and corners. Training dummies and the like were spread apart giving significant space around the large room for any who were hoping to hone their skill before the battle ahead.

Scott sighed, clearly reluctant, but Stiles knew that his friend was just as thrilled as he. Scott was more fascinated by the Crucible than any other person the prince knew, save possibly his father.

“I’m only just enjoying the sight before they are but extremities muddling the ground. With that in mind, if any of them were to see us, take comfort in knowing that most, if not all, will be dead before the sun sets.”

Scott shook his head, but a grin ruined any attempts for it to seem in irritation. Stiles smiled back but then turned his attention to the sight before them.

The prince studied the room with keen eye. Most of the men seemed to migrate into small groups, each bantering amongst themselves, in spite that they were all going to eventually be slashing at one another. That in itself was quite peculiar to Stiles.

His attention was stolen by a bellowing laughter. A group of admittedly intimidating combatants seemed to be taking great amusement in another man. Their posture and contorted faces gave away their nefarious nature. Stiles let his body move farther around the corner in hopes of eavesdropping. His motion was stilled when his vision caught sight of their target.

It was that man. The very same black knight of which he had ran into the day before.

Stiles had all but pried whatever information he could from Scott regarding the man. Stiles had described to his friend the encounter that took place the day before in vivid detail. He distinctly remembered his friend’s face falling eerily grim and his skin pale at the mention of the infamous _Black Wolf_. Scott instantly supplied in his own startling detail everything there was to know about this warrior. The savage man, often rumored beast, who mercilessly slayed all who would stand against him. How his incredible feats had lasted him a whole year and how for some reason, he never claimed the prizes. That was interesting to Stiles in particular, for if not the money or glory, why fight?

His friend carried on though, eventually divulging in horrid and vulgar rumors that had spread far a thick throughout the kingdom. Many brash and awful tales that had Stiles cringing. However, the prince’s curiosity was that of an abyss, never ending in its hunger. Despite what he was told, he had thirsted to know more.

And so here he was, so clear within Stiles’ sight. Fate was a cruel and tempting Jester.

His eyes narrowed in hopes to catch wind of their conversation. The man of whom he saw was sitting alone on one of the many benches farthest from the others. He was situated in a corner, whether to keep watch on his enemies or just to avoid social interaction, he could not conclude. He stared for a moment, their meeting (if you can call it that) replayed in his mind. The sheer intensity of the man’s aura sent a shiver down his spine. He should feel threatened by the absolute ferocity of it, but Stiles had been known to become infatuated with particularly dangerous things. It was both a blessing and a curse.

The prince moved without thought, instantly drawn out by some insatiable need to understand. To figure out some grand puzzle that he couldn’t decipher. He was quickly grabbed by the wrist. Scott was staring at him with an intense gaze. It would have been daunting if it were not for his round, puppy like eyes.

“No! I know that look! You will not have me hung by my entrails by your rash mind” he begged. Stiles stared back at him and shook from his grip.

“I already told you, they will all be dead anyways. So what does it matter? Live a little, Scott!” His friend looked scared out of his head. His eyes searching for any sort of authoritative guard. Which was preposterous, of course. None of the guards were located within the holding room. They stayed watch outside in the event that the warriors were to do anything brash.

“Stay here and keep watch. I’ll only be gone a moment. The arena will begin soon. I’ll be careful, I promise.” He smiled in hopes that it would reassure his friend. Scott nodded, albeit, hesitantly.

Stiles stayed close to the wall, walking at a snails pace in hopes that his slow movements wouldn’t draw much attention. His endeavors were successful. He slithered up closely to the group that seemed so fixated on the Black Wolf.

“It’s true, I tell you!” a burly man said “He scours the streets at night and feasts on cats and rodents, the animal he is” The group laughed, completely hysterical with such a brainless claim.

“Ye know, I heard he likes to trail the whores at night, after the biddies are finished with their men, and he-” Oh, Stiles didn’t want to listen to the rest of that one. After the voices switched, he rubbed his nose quietly, and tuned back in.

“I see him at the tavern sometimes. Pretty sure it’s him. Always drinkin’, that one. Never with an empty flagon I tell you. A sodden lout what’s no happier than when he’s bloody and fuckered.”

Stiles couldn’t fathom what he was hearing. Could this man really be what they claim him? His gaze found the Black Wolf. The man was staring off into the distance, pointedly at a wall, completely disinterested in everything around him. But Stiles felt him, as soon as his eyes focused, that savage aura consumed him. How he could hear what the men were saying was beyond him, as loud as they were, the Black Wolf was far from hearing distance. Stiles knew though, the waves of anger and raw rage that flowed from him as the callous accusations were being said. The way they spiked during their words, and settled for a moment, but quickly flared up by the next. He heard them...and for some reason, that tore through Stiles’ heart like a blunt knife.

The prince was going to ignore it. He was. In his mind he had already planned on turning away and leaving, but then he caught sight of the man’s eyes. Those shining prismatic orbs entranced Stiles like a spell. But where he thought he would feel elation and passion, all he saw was a bitter sorrow. A broken soul barely hanging on. The hollowed husk of a man. Stiles knew that feeling. He knew it all too well. The memories of his mother laying lifeless on her bed, the frailty of her form and paleness of her once vibrant skin plagued his thoughts. The overwhelming grief and sadness filled his heart. Yes, Stiles knew that feeling. He had lived through it for what felt like an eternity after her passing. Which is why his body was already moving before he could think better of it. Which is why he took seat next to the Black Wolf and just...sat?

The man instantly caught his movement as Stiles situated himself. His piercing stare feeling as if it were cutting into Stiles’ skin. The prince knew he should say something, he was quite good at carrying on one sided conversations. He had a knack for talking far too much, ask anyone. But sitting there under the overpowering gaze of this ferocious warrior had Stiles tongue tied.

He looked up over to the man, so close once again, taking in his features. He was the epitome of Adonis, yet his dark features reminded him of something more sinister. Until he caught his eyes. The Black Wolf had lifted his head a little, the deep shadows cast by his prominent brow bone receding to reveal the clearest eyes he’d ever seen. They were sharp, and vibrant, pools of every color he could recall. At least that’s how it seemed. His face was sculpted with the chisel of the Gods. It had to have been, to achieve those sleek lines that smoothed from his cheekbones to his jaw. The straight line of his nose was neither severe nor understated. It didn’t turn up like his own, but it didn’t hook down either. The dark stubble on his jaw almost made Stiles envious, the prince who couldn’t grow whiskers yet, if he’d ever be able to. This dark warrior looked like he shaved every few hours, for it to grow back swiftly into a masculine shadow as it was now. His lips didn’t shift from a neutral, hard line, and Stiles couldn’t quite imagine a smile on his face, but just looking at him he knew it would be a breathtaking sight.

Stiles broke himself from his trance, fearing that his obvious inspection would be noticed. He was frightened, that was for sure, but this warrior had that effect. Despite his fear, he smiled. It was genuine, but hardly as lively in its usuality.

“Merry Meet...” he said tentatively. It sounded weak even to his own ears, but the energy was there. His attempts would not be misconstrued. He sincerely wanted to converse with this stranger, if not to simply satiate his own burning intrigue, but to perhaps...he wasn’t quite sure. Comfort, maybe? Offer a kinship of some sort? No one should feel the way this man’s eyes scream to him. No one should feel that...alone.

* * *

Derek hadn’t even noticed him. How hadn’t he noticed? He was obviously too far lost in his stupor, his senses dulled by memories. He didn’t often daydream, but when he did take a moment to withdraw into his mind, he tended to go towards better days. A place inside of himself where all was well. Then, they were so abruptly assaulted by a startling familiarity that he’d been trying so desperately to forget.

Derek’s mind was under siege. Who was this kid? Why was he here of all places? Good God, that intoxicating smell, again. Derek was trying his best to ignore it, but it was drowning his senses. His mouth was wet and filled with salivation. He could hardly focus.

Well he could, just not on anything other than this enigmatic boy.

There was that same vibrancy, this natural and energetic glow that seemed to make everything else fade into the background. This boy was like a beacon; a spark of vitality that left the world seeming such a dull and dreary place in his contrast. He had an inkling of what it was, too, and it made his lips pull downwards into an instinctive frown, brow furrowed slightly. It had taken him a lot of thinking, of what it reminded him of. It was much stronger with this boy, though. Stronger than he knew it could be. The tang in the air around him, and the way he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end...

This time, it seemed he would have a chance to examine the phenomena, as the boy remained beside him despite Derek's persistent and disconcerting silence. He could have been a monk, for all the sounds he made. His fingers were busied with tightening the laces on his wrist bracers, but every sense he had was focused uncontrollably on the presence next to him.

“So....” Stiles began in a slightly anxious voice. The prince’s posture was less than impeccable as he hunched over to brace his elbows on his thighs. Derek could practically hear his mothers sharp reprimand.

 _‘A prince does not appear as if he has the weight of the world burdening him, he sits up tall, and straight as if to say, the world is mine and you can’t have it.’_ It made him uneasy, the involuntary memory. His face showed none of it though.

“I don’t know if you remember me... I ran into you yesterday in the streets. Sorry I didn’t stop to properly apologize for that, I was in a bit of a hurry but I really did want to stay and talk...” It was like a flood gate had opened, because all of the sudden, the boy was talking. A never ending onslaught of words that grinded his nerves.

Derek had no doubt in his mind who he was now. He could hear what Stiles couldn’t; the scandalized whispers all through the holding room.

“Why is the prince sitting with that... “

“Should we go over and tell the prince not to talk to him? What if he snaps and hurts him?”

“Or worse, he could kill him.”

“What if he’s a cannibal! He’d kill ‘im an’ then eat ‘im!”

Now that was just insulting. Derek had no desire to sink his fangs into this boy's flesh.

That revelation was abrupt, hitting him like a brick wall when the man had suggested he might do that. Often, werewolves who fought unarmed had to settle for fighting with claws and teeth. It was second nature, and instinct, to be prepared to do so. For him, his bloodlust always simmered just beneath the surface. But for all his fury and rage and slowly dwindling patience, he couldn’t bring himself to direct it’s force towards the prince.

“I hadn’t really meant for my prank to cut it that close to the guards, but that’s life I suppose. You would think by now they would learn how to take a joke, it was just a beehive, it’s not like....” Derek had tuned back into Stiles’ rambling story of why he’d been running from the guards for just a moment before switching hands, and tightening his other bracer. The arena was steadily filling with spectators and soon they’d be called out to fight. The prince, was in no doubt, there to watch. Did he always come? He’d never seen him there before, but then, he never really paid attention to who was watching. He didn’t care if anyone watched the slaughter. That wasn’t why he was there.

Suddenly, Stiles was laughing. The infectious sound of it was ridiculous. He had never before wished he was deaf, but at that moment he did. He could see, in his peripheral vision, that the prince had a broad smile across his face. One slender hand with well-formed fingers had come up to rub along the prince’s jawline, while the other gesticulated freely in the air. Derek had never noticed anyone’s hands before, but observing them now was simply mesmerizing. Those pale and long digits wisping through the air animatedly. The thick, prominent veins that trailed from the back of his hands to the lean, corded muscles of his arms, pulsing with vivacious, reverberant life. The occasional freckle or mole dotting creamy flesh. He briefly wondered if all hands were this fascinating or if this was just another captivating trait so exclusive to the prince.

On some level, Derek wanted to snap at the boy, demanding why he was there and what he could possibly want from him. That would be too bothersome, though, so he continued his silent vigil. At some point, Derek stopped consciously ignoring the young man’s rambling words, and listened in quiet annoyance.

“...I don’t really come to these things. I don’t like the violence. I feel like it’s pointless, watching men cut each other up for money, and fame.” The prince stopped, looking nervous; littering the air with his apprehension. Then he spoke again.

“I’ve heard of you.” Derek mentally flinched at that. Of course the prince had heard of him. The cruel, blood thirsty, monster Black Wolf. How could he not? The humans of this kingdom prided themselves on their gossip, and begrudgingly Derek would admit, he is found at its center.

“But I never realized you were so... big. Or real, for that matter. I mean, seriously. Your armor must weigh seven stone all on it’s own! And your.... Big.... stick thing...What ever is that even?” Derek’s tongue flexed inside his clenched mouth, his weapons name at the tip of it. He just barely managed to stifle it, though.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t really know your reasons for fighting in The Crucible, so I can’t condemn you for it. I’m reluctant to support any part of this... barbaric demonstration. But.... I think, today.... I will be rooting for you. I don’t believe the things the others say about you.”

_‘You should.’_

“I don’t know if anyone has really taken the time to talk to you, or try to at least, but if more people did, then I don’t think they’d misunderstand you as much as they do.”

_‘Oh, I think they would.’_

“I guess what I’m trying to say is that I think there’s more to you than this... silent mass of dark brooding eyebrows, and I have this habit of curiosity where I need to know things other people don’t. So I hope you don’t mind but I will likely be annoying the hell out of you for a while. And even if you do mind, I’ll still do it, so you might as well resign yourself to your fate. I’ll make a friend of you yet, Black Wolf.”

Derek jerked to look at Stiles, staring at him intently, as if the boy were stupid. Why the hell would he want to befriend the most hated man in the kingdom? He realized his mistake in acknowledging the prince’s words with his movement when Stiles’ face lit up.

“Ah! So you are listening! I knew it!” His face split into an even wider grin than the one he’d made earlier, and this time Derek was looking right at him. Rolling his eyes and looking away, Derek stood up finally, his plate armor rattling in place as he shifted and grabbed his weapon.

“Hey...hey where are you going?” Stiles stood up as well, confused.

Just in time, the horns blared, and the announcer’s voice rang out through the echoing arena, calling for the warriors to come take their places. Derek didn’t look back to the prince as he started to move forward. He had no intentions of fueling the boy’s deranged fantasy that they might become friends, nor feed any notion that he’d expect a duplication of the prince’s presence. He would not look back.

Of course, Stiles didn’t know his resolve, or how weak it really was. The prince’s hand came up quickly, catching Derek’s wrist gently. The boy’s grasp was nothing to Derek. He could easily break free of it, and if it had been any other man, he’d have killed him on the spot for touching him.

Instead he felt a calmness resonating from that meeting point, and froze in his steps. Derek looked back in frustration and bewilderment. What power did this simple boy have over him that his very touch could soothe the beast inside of him? More and more, as he experienced the prince’s company, he wanted to know what he was. If Stiles even knew himself... Which Derek doubted for some reason.

Swallowing quietly, Derek watched as Stiles pulled something from his pocket. A thin slip of material, fabric, silk by the looks of it. A deep blood scarlet handkerchief, embroidered on the corner with the prince’s own symbol, an intricate knot of fine gold thread. The fabric was pressed into his hand, fingers curling around it instinctively. He stared at the token for a moment, before looking up to the prince quietly. His face was more a mask of confusion than annoyance at the moment.

Then his whole body tensed with the memories of his old kingdom. His old life; of his family and its traditions. Did this boy not know of what he offered? Of course he didn’t, he was benign and ignorant of Vilkas’ customs. For the second time in the same hour he heard his mother’s voice ring true through his thoughts.

_'The beginning of a courtship begins with a token, Derek. A personal gesture, usually of value in the form of a fabric. Something that easily carries their scent. They will only offer it to the man they deem worthy a mate. If you accept this token, this will immediately initiate the process of courtship. It signifies you accept that person to be yours.'_

As the words faded into the recesses of his mind, his gut twisted at the simple implication. Which is why he knew he should have dropped the token and left in haste. Why he knew he should roar in the prince’s face to watch him run in terror; to get as far away from Derek as possible. To vanish from his sight and never to return.

Only he didn’t.

He clutched the fabric in his grip tightly, it’s non-existent weight like an anchor in his hand.

“It’s for luck, Black Wolf. Wear it, and you’ll live this match through.”

Frowning, he finally pulled his wrist away from the prince, and turned back to the gate. Derek tamped on his helmet and after taking a bracing breath, walked towards the Arena’s gates. He couldn’t tell Stiles that he shouldn’t accept the token. He couldn’t look at the boy and tell him he had joined The Crucible for the precise reason of dying. He didn’t want the prince to watch him fail for the first time.

Stiles watched for a moment longer, before deciding it was time to rejoin Scott, and his father, in the stands. It wasn’t until after the prince turned away that Derek quietly tied the fabric around his arm, in a tight double knot.

* * *

Scott was eyeing his friend with heavy judgement and an even heavier suspicion. Even his father had taken notice of the prince’s sudden intense interest in today’s match. Where Stiles would usually be hunched over, donning a putrid posture in spite of his father, he was sitting upright and proper. There was a glowing excitement glazing his features. The obvious stature of anticipation when the warriors had taken their places in the large, dome-like arena, was just as revealing.

Stiles’ eyes had quickly, and easily found their mark. It was not difficult to spot that hulking ebony armour. The prince watched with weary eyes as the battle commenced. The sheer brutal ferocity of the Black Wolf was indeed unmatched. It was hard to say why, though, when an enemy's blade came dangerously close to him, Stiles could feel his entire body cringe and his heart weigh heavy.

However, the king had a knowing eye, and already there was gossip circulating around them. Not that he needed gossip. The proof that his son had been consorting with the abomination known as the _Black Wolf_ was as clear as the scarlet cloth the warrior wore. Even from his perch, high above the arena, the silky gleam did not escape his gaze, nor did the unique and familiar gold crest.

Through his peripheral he could see his son to his right, lip caught between his teeth, an obvious nervous habit that he shared with his mother. How his hands clenched tightly to his breeches as he spectated with an ever watchful eye. It was common knowledge of his son’s palpable loathing of the Crucible. He voiced his opinions to all on the matter. He was adamant on his position, just like his mother. The king knew without a doubt there was something that had transpired between his son and this ominous warrior in black.

The king was no fool of the prince’s more _intimate_ inclinations. The thought of how he caught his son, half-clothed, in the clutches of that slave boy had his body vibrating with aggravation. Though Stiles had sworn that they had done nothing, that it was just a fleeting curiosity and his body remained pure, the king could see it was true. His son had not committed an act of immorality. The king was fair and he even liked to think of himself as a pioneer in modern concepts. There was, of course, whispers of men and women who were of that nature, choosing to align themselves in eternal partnerships with those of their own gender. He personally did not condemn them like the churches did so readily.

However, the prince was his only heir; his only male. The fate of the bloodline rest in his son’s ability and readiness to reproduce. He had a duty to marry and produce an heir of his own, lest the name Stilinski end with him. It had been a favor to his son, and his late wife’s wishes, that Stiles remain unmarried until the young man found a woman of his choice. It was a heavy burden on the king’s heart, to know that the rift between them stemmed from his son’s obtuse nature, but tradition was tradition and the bloodline must flourish. So he took measures to assure that his son was kept away from queer temptations.

That is why when looking at the excited and nervous gaze of his son, so discernibly fixated on the Black Wolf, anger boiled within his chest.

Stiles turned to whisper to his friend, though his voice was always so boisterous, it was a pointless endeavor. All those within his immediate vicinity could hear him.

“Scott, what else do you know of the Black Wolf?” The prince asked with troubled eyes fixated on the battle. As he watched, the trepidation was almost unbearable. Though the Black Wolf was highly skilled and an expert in his swordsmanship, Stiles found that the distance of the other warriors’ blades made him uneasy.

Perhaps it was caused by his earlier revelation? When the prince had first laid eyes on his handkerchief, fastened around on the Black Wolf’s person, he felt his chest swell. Perchance their prattle was held on higher regards than Stiles had thought? That alone had him smiling far brighter than he thought appropriate.

Scott, who stood behind the prince’s chair, leaned down to whisper into his friend’s ear.

“I could not believe it when I first heard it myself, but today amongst the gossip of townsfolk I had discovered his true identity. He is Crown Prince Derek, Son of Joseph of the Hale family. He is the rightful heir to the ruined Kingdom of Vilkas.” As the words fell from his friend’s mouth, Stiles felt himself gaping unto the battlefield, eyes instantly finding...finding...

 _Derek Hale_. 

_Crown Prince_.

 _Rightful Heir to the Kingdom of Vilkas_. 

Stiles felt his heart sink into his stomach but his mind had ignited into a whirlwind of awe and a newfound desire to know more.

The Black Wolf, most feared, savage, brutal and ferocious warrior Stiles had ever heard or seen of, was a Crown Prince. The enlightenment excited the prince to his core, though he could not discern why.

“Derek Hale...” Stiles echoed, voice but a whisper.

 _Oh yes_. Stiles would most _definitely_ be seeing the Black Wolf again.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles could be patient when he wanted to be. He could also be persistent. It was a dangerous combination in the wrong circumstances. It was painful to wait out the nights. It was painful to sit through each battle. Stiles was determined though. His persistence had him coming to The Crucible every single day. It had become a routine. One that the king, of course, found incredibly suspect. Even Scott had begun to get curious as to why his prince was demanding now to attend the fights. He didn’t press his luck though, when he had asked Stiles about it, and the prince had suggested that if he had a problem with it that he could stay at the castle. Scott enjoyed The Crucible and was only able to attend when he was accompanying Stiles, so the implied threat, no matter how much of a joke it was, had been enough to halt any further questions for the time being.

It was a concise plan. Repetitive. Almost habitual. His feet took him where he needed to go. Every day he found Derek at that same bench. He would sit beside him, and speak to the stoic, and thus-far mute warrior. Watching him attentively as he worked on his gear, making sure he was completely prepared. The talking all came from Stiles. Which was okay. Stiles was used to talking. He was good at it, and if Derek didn’t want to speak yet, that was okay. Stiles would just come back the very next day, to do it all over again.

Derek knew it should have been maddening. He should be at the limits of his patience by now. He liked to tell himself that he hadn’t snapped simply because he didn’t want to face the consequences of accidentally killing the Crown Prince in a fit of rage. But that wasn’t the truth. Not even close. He’d be lying to himself if he allowed himself to think that he could ever truly hurt the boy. That didn’t mean he wasn’t irritating, or annoying. He was both of those things. More so than any other person Derek had ever met. Which was what made this situation even more unsettling.

Stiles was always careful with his topics. He never let on to Derek that he knew who he was. Always, he called him ‘Black Wolf’. On the young man’s lips, the name was not so much a title of fear, but a jovial prod of humor. A nickname. Stiles didn’t want to push Derek in the wrong direction, with talks of loss, and the past. A topic he, himself, was all too familiar with. No one really seemed to realize how much pain Stiles experienced when they spoke to him of the late Queen. A topic that the prince always managed to avoid acknowledging with more than a flicker of a forced smile.

Rather, Stiles talked to Derek about everything else. Literally everything. The weather, food, sport, fish, colors -which ones were his favorites and which were not- and so much more. His mouth was always moving, as were his expressive hands. Hands that Derek had, on some level, become obsessed with. Day after day, he only ever allowed himself to look at the prince’s hands, never at his face, but for that singular moment before he was called to the Arena. Derek always glanced up to look at Stiles face, as he finished tying the double knot on the crimson silk kerchief around his arm. He always made sure to see the prince’s smile pull across his pale features, and the glint in his eyes when Stiles told him, ‘“I wish you luck, Black Wolf. I’ll be rooting for you.” 

He knew he should turn away. He should spurn the prince’s kindness and return to his unaffected life. Every time Derek sees him smile, and hears Stiles’ wishes that he might survive another day... His fondness for the prince grew a little more. His focus was beginning to shift, and he hadn’t even realized it yet. Two weeks came and went, before Derek realized that he was no longer fighting to die. He was fighting to live. He wanted to live through the match, so that he could see the prince again, the next day. So that Stiles could tell him once more, in not so many words: “I want you to survive this match, and I will be here to watch you do so.” 

To the day, it had been exactly two weeks, this Crucible. Already, Derek was quietly anticipating the prince’s arrival. He ignored the silent jeering of the other men, taunting in the shadows rather than to his face. Of course they didn’t know that he could hear them. He was making a list in his head of the order in which he would slaughter them. His thoughts quickly turned away from blood, and gore, when a familiar heartbeat entered the room and took it’s place at the forefront of his mind and attention. Derek’s neck ached from how he resisted the urge to turn his head and greet Stiles with his face.

The bench hardly shifted under the young man’s inconsequential weight, only letting of a tiny creek. The wood was old and the nails made of bad iron. It held them, though, as it did every day aside from Sunday, the one day a week that The Crucible was not held. By law of the new Church, no sport of any kind would take place on the Holy Day. Particularly not a sport of death. That first Sunday had nearly killed both Stiles and Derek, realizing they wouldn’t see each other. Stiles had wandered the city, in hopes of running into the dark warrior, but Derek remained in his small home, brooding. 

Stiles was already talking well before he sat down. Today he had an elaborate story about a prank he’d pulled on the guard at the palace. He was barely able to even get the words out, at points, for how hard he was laughing retelling his exploits. Derek had to admit, the prince was clever. His mischief was beyond smart at times the way he plotted and accounted for all factors. He had profiled the men that his father employed in the guard well enough to know what each one would do when a rat was dropped down the back of their collar.

It was hard for him to not laugh, as Stiles dramatically recreated the expressions, and a few of the hilarious sounds the men had made. His lips itched to turn up into a grin. Instead he dropped his head and double checked the buckles on the straps around his shin plates. Finally he deciding he was strapped in as well as he’d ever be. Sitting upright, he had the last piece in his hand. Stiles’ kerchief. It had seen better days, by now. Slightly frayed silk distressed from battle, stained with dirt and blood. Derek had carefully washed it by hand every night, before he even considered tending to the rest of his gear. It dried over night, hung above his hearth.

He shifted to begin tying it in place-- a sign that it was almost time for them to part ways. Without warning, Stiles reached out, and took the fabric from Derek, whose eyes widened, falling to look at the prince’s face in confusion, words of protest ready to fall from his lips. Stiles simply grinned at him, and told him to relax, slipping the fabric around Derek’s arm personally, tying it in place with that same double knot, tugging it tight. His eyes lingered on the knot, fingers tracing the dull gold thread of his personal insignia before quietly looking up at Derek’s face again. There was something transpiring between them as Derek stared back. He had become completely transfixed by the way the prince’s eyes could flash from such a warm brown to a brilliant liquid gold. The way they gazed into his own, almost as if they were searching or perhaps even pleading. Derek felt as though he could get lost in those eyes. Eyes that were looking at him with a mixture of the deepest consideration and on some level, concern. 

“I wish you luck, Black Wolf. I’ll be rooting for you.” Stiles murmured the familiar lines, hands coming down to rest on his own lap now. Predictably, Derek stood from the bench, taking up his glaive in one hand, helmet in the other. He stared at the dented ebony metal of his old helmet. 

“Thank you.” Derek said softly, his voice gruff, and cold, before his hand lifted in one smooth motion, jamming the last of his armor onto his head, moving to take his place at the gate, once more. He didn’t turn to see the dumbfounded expression on the prince’s face or the slow form of a smile that shaped his lips.

* * *

“...So I tried to hoist this bucket of water up over the guard who was standing watch that day, but for some reason the rope wouldn’t glide through the hook.” Stiles complained. It was another Crucible, and he was sorely disappointed that day that his prank hadn’t succeeded. “It was going to be so good too! His face would have been priceless!” He sighed heavily and sagged. 

Derek frowned quietly as his mind involuntarily provided a mental picture of the set-up Stiles had been talking about. It reminded him of the time his sister and he had hoisted a bucket to the top of a door, balanced precariously. When his Uncle Peter had opened the door to let himself in, the bucket had tumbled over, dumping a load of fish onto him. It had gotten them in so much trouble, but his sister and he had laughed over that for days.

“Did you try to grease the rope?” Derek asked finally, surprising Stiles. The warrior had slowly started to warm up to speaking. Usually no more than a few words, occasionally barely more than a grunt. Seven words could have been a speech, for the broad male he was staring at.

“Wait... what?” The shock of hearing him speak had made him blank the suggestion. Derek sighed, tamping his foot further down into his boot.

“Go to the kitchens next time and get some lard. Grease the rope. It’ll slide through the hook.” Derek might as well have given Stiles a pile of gold, with the way the prince looked in that moment.

* * *

Stiles was in a less than brilliant mood, as he ho-hummed on the bench beside Derek that day. Normally he’d be filling the silence with all kinds of chatter, but it seemed like every time Stiles opened his mouth to start a line of thought, he lost the energy for it and remained silent. It was disconcerting, for Derek, and he knew if this continued, he’d be distracted all through the match.

“What?” He demanded at last, glaring quietly at his companion. The sudden question startled Stiles into jerking away an inch, looking sharply at Derek.

“What?” The prince was confused.

“Why are you so quiet? It’s not natural. I should have a headache by now, but my ears aren’t even ringing.” Derek griped irritably. 

“Oh... I... It’s nothing, really. I’m just having some difficulties in my studies. My father wants me to learn tactical battle patterns and war maneuvers and none of it makes sense. Probably because I don’t want to learn any of it, but that doesn’t help me. I’m not cut out to lead armies and fight wars.” Derek could sympathize with that, to a point. He could remember his own father drilling the same type of information into his head when he was much, much younger than Stiles.

“It’s important. If it helps, try to apply it to things that happen in your life. Like... Advancing to the Rear. It’s not a retreat, per se. You do this all the time with the guards. Instead of running to them head on for an attack, or a prank, you advance to a fall back position, and lay in wait with a sneak attack. If you try to think of it in terms like that, it’ll make more sense to you.” For the first time, something tactical actually rang a bell for Stiles.

“Just... how much do you know about stuff like this?” He asked curiously.

“Enough.” Derek cut out bluntly, standing up. 

“Enough to tutor me?” Stiles asked hopefully, standing as well, to tie the fabric to his warrior’s arm.

“Yes. But no, I’m not tutoring you. I’m not a teacher. I’ve got... I have people to kill.” He glowered, pulling his helmet on and waiting. Stiles sighed and stared at Derek.

“Fine. Good luck, jerk. I’ll be rooting for you.” Even though he’d said it in an irritated tone, they both knew Stiles really meant it.

* * *

Three weeks came and went, Derek and Stiles had talked almost religiously before every Crucible. However, it was a Sunday, and thus, there would be no match to bring them together.

Stiles found himself walking through the markets. The streets were bustling with the friendly faces of his kingdom, each going on with their business. The sky a clear blue, and the sun so bright and warm. Stiles should have been feeling in good spirits, though for a reason that he feared had become more than a fleeting curiosity, he was feeling dejected. 

His thoughts were deterred, focusing on the reason he had come to the markets. His eyes easily found a familiar vendor, his feet already taking him before a petite and smiling young woman. She was slight of figure, and tow-headed with a tender smile for Stiles and cheerfulness in her pale eyes. Like many of the kingdom’s inhabitants, she loved the prince.

“Good morrow, Emma. Merry Meet.” Stiles greeted with a dashing smile.

"Good Tidings, Highness. Merry Meet." The girl replied. Stiles subtly skimmed the area around them, making sure that no one was in their immediate vicinity. When finally they were within some privacy, he stepped into her space.

“Emma, I was hoping that you, um...you know...” He gestured to a space behind the stall. She looked over for a moment, a perplexed expression upon her features before she snapped back to his face.

“Oh! Yes! What is it that you need? My last shipment was smaller than most, but I did manage to obtain some fresh Hydrangea and Gardenia. I don’t need to tell you how rare those are.” Emma replied with a smile. Stiles mulled it over, thinking of how the herbs could assist in his endeavors into the craft before he shook his head in decline.

“No thank you. I was hoping that you had some Asphodel? For, you know...tomorrow.” Stiles inquired gently. Emma’s face sank, donning a guilty and remorseful expression.

“Stiles. I beg, my apologies. I...I forgot.” She pleaded. It was Stiles’ turn to fall into a sad stupor. Waves of grief and shame washed over him like a blanket. He knew they came in part from his friend beside him so he forced a grin.

“It’s fine, Em. I know of a place they grow in full.” She looked a little relieved and apologized again for the inconvenience.

“I might be back tomorrow. My stash of Adder’s Tongue is just about diminished and the Goddess knows how often I use it to quell all the exaggerated prattle.” He added with a laugh.

“Indeed. Trouble finds you often, Genim. Or is it you who seeks out disorder?” She quipped with a playfully raised eyebrow. Stiles rolled his eyes in response.

“Em, I told you not to call me that. My name is Stiles. _Stiles_. And I do no such thing. The Mother Goddess enjoys teasing me with her silly games.”

Emma laughed and nodded her head. “I suppose she does. And my sincerest apologies, but when I see you, my mind instantly supplies the name. I suppose our lifelong friendship is to blame.” She said in fondness. The prince nodded in agreement.

“I suppose it is. Good day, Em. Blessed Be.” Stiles delivered with a slight bow. Emma took the prince’s hand lightly and turned it upright into an open pose. She pulled from her pocket a small woven pouch and set it into his palm before closing his fingers around it gently.

“Good day, _Stiles_.” She enunciated pointedly before curtseying. “Blessed Be.”

He departed the booth and returned to the masses of the townsfolk. Stiles waited until he was a little ways from the woman’s shop before opening the pouch to find it filled with Bayberry. His mind instantly supplied that it was to bring luck, good fortune and relief of stress. A smirk shaped his lips.

_‘Trust Emma to know exactly what I need’_

It was times like these he thanked the Mother Goddess of his long friendship with his fellow witch. As long as he could remember, his mother had taught him in absolute secrecy the ‘Craft of the Wise’. They spent many nights in his mother’s chambers, locked behind the safety of the door as she would teach of the Lord and Lady. How the herbs that grow from the earth are just as strong as the steel the warriors wield, and as resilient as the thickest of armor. She had told him fantastic tales; creatures greater than man and animals that live deep in the forests as well as the depths of the seas. How the world is filled with _Magick_.

Stiles had always been fascinated by its concepts, instantly attaching to the craft and consuming all he could on the subject. He read on the lore and legends, of the rituals and spells, of the herbal concoctions. It was like he had found a piece of himself he had never known he lost. The addition to witchcraft filled him with completion and left him feeling whole.

Emma was the daughter of Elayna, his mother’s closest friend and also a fellow practitioner of the craft. Stiles had immediately taken to Emma, the both of them almost becoming like siblings. Their relationship was not unlike the prince’s bond with Scott.

Elayna ran the small trinket shop that Emma now managed. Though, its true purpose is the vending of herbs. The particulars of the matter are simple. Witchcraft, despite its benevolent and peaceful nature, is a misunderstood culture. The Churches condemn all who partake in its practice. Every witch that is discovered is to be burned at the stake. So the herbal stall is run in secret and its true purpose is only known by a handful of other witches in the kingdom.

After the Queen’s death, Stiles was lost and desperate to hold onto any remnant of his mother and he found comfort in his magick. The many nights they spent studying and practicing their spells were locked away deep in his heart. If it wasn’t for Emma’s stall, collecting the herbs that most magick required would be no small feat.

He smiled to himself, thanking the Mother Goddess once again for their friendship. Then was suddenly halted by a wave of recognition. Raw rage, anger and ferocity hit him like a tangible wall. He was intimately familiar with these specific emotions and the metallic flavor they left on his tongue. As his mind processed the thought, his eyes easily found what they were looking for.

In the distance, not too far from where Stiles stood frozen was an armor-less Derek Hale. The sight admittedly had taken the prince by surprise. Only once before had he seen the Black Wolf without his protective gear. To see him now, in common cloth is an exhilarating sight to behold. 

Though the man is garbed in nothing too extravagant, he was dressed in all black. This served in making his already mysterious appearance even more mystifying. His boots were thick and made of a crude, pebbled leather. His trousers hugged comfortably to his muscled legs and were noticeably patched in some places. The shirt that covered his strong and broad chest looked a little worn and was frayed at the hems. It was also loosely tied, revealing smooth, tan skin.

Before he could think better of it, Stiles was already making his way through the crowds of people. However, there was no chance at surprising the Black Wolf, for when he came within an arms reach the man quickly turned to face the prince.

“Fancy meeting you here, Black Wolf," he said with a bow. "What brings you to the markets this fine day?” His voice exuded delight. Though it was entirely informal, Stiles would have liked to think that they were friends enough to speak without troublesome formalities. The man stared blankly at the prince, nothing in his expression. An awkward silence filled the air between them. Stiles shifted his weight from one foot to the other nervously. It was... undeniably unusual to be speaking outside the walls of the holding room. The many weeks they’ve spent bantering in the low-light behind the Crucible seemed such a far off notion now that they were both exposed to the bright light of day.

Derek didn't giving off how uncomfortable he was feeling, seeing how he too didn’t know how to act around the prince now that they aren’t sitting on some old and decrepit bench. The usual smells of musk and blood were nowhere to be found, replaced by the fresh scent of grass and soil. It was unnerving and he didn't know how to conduct himself. Stiles must have sensed his hesitation and discomfort. It was obvious he had caught on the way the prince's muscles made an aborted motion, and his mouth opened without sound and then closed in repetition were certain giveaways. Derek wanted to turn and walk away, and he knew he should have, but there was something so inexplicably grounding about the presence of the boy. He found his feet were heavy as stone, rooted to the ground without the slightest hope of moving.

“Will you...walk with me?” The prince suddenly asked, a hand rubbing the back of his neck proved his own apprehension. Derek finally seemed to take notice. The realization that Stiles was actually here, standing right in front of him hit Derek full force as his eyes studied the prince with a little more clarity.

Stiles stood casually, his posture familiar and friendly despite his extravagant clothing. Most of the commoners wore predominantly grey, or brown fabrics with a sash of color here and there, or a vest with colored thread. But as a royal, Stiles exuded his patriotism with his clothes. Rich beige breeches fitted to his legs in wool, for the colder weather settling upon them. His boots were an opulent soil brown, laced up to his knees, a sign that he'd been riding his horse earlier that day. On top, his frock was crisp, pure white. Similar to the untainted snow at the first signs of winter. A frill of fabric at his neck parted to reveal the sleek line of his neck. Over his shirt he had picked a vest of bright crimson. The color of a ripe holly berry. The seems of the collar, hem, and arms were stitched with an intricate gold thread. The same shining color as the gold buttons that lined his vest. Around his trim waist he wore a belt of the same warm brown leather his boots had been fashioned from, a short sword at his left side.

In brief, Derek had found himself staring at the prince far longer than necessary. There was little about his clothing that was different than any day they would talk in the holding room, only it was so clearly evident that the dim illumination of that room served no justice to Stiles’ appearance.

Derek could hear it though, the quickened pater of the prince’s heart. The acrid smell of fear that suddenly imbued with Stiles’ naturally intoxicating scent; fear of his proposal being rejected. The mere implication of it offended Derek, which was why he found himself nodding in validity. The prince’s face instantly lit up.

“Marvelous. That is...that is good.” He said with poorly masked enthusiasm. He motioned with a graceful arm in a direction behind Derek. The broader man turned and started to walk with a pronounced saunter now that he was unburdened by heavy plate armor, while Stiles took place closely to his side. Another moment passed in uncomfortable silence, but Derek would be a fool if he thought the prince would not seek to fill it.

“So...tis a beautiful day, is it not?” Derek nodded in agreement, still unsure of how his voice will sound outside of the holding room. Stiles didn’t seem to mind, or rather, he understood Derek’s dismay. Though, that was why his next question warranted response.

“What brings you to the market?” He asked casually, repeating his earlier forgotten inquiry. Derek let the question linger for a moment before finding his voice.

“My armor needed reforging. The last Crucible left it in near disrepair.” Stiles seemed to ponder for a moment.

“Oh, yes. I remember. That brute of a man had caught you in the back.” Derek noticed the worry in his tone; catching Stiles’ eyes as they peered towards Derek’s shoulder as if he could see the others back from where he stood. If Derek’s eyes could not ascertain the obvious concern, his nose could surely smell the distress in their place.

“My armor is thick, that does not mean it is invulnerable. I left it to the Blacksmith.” He supplied. Stiles nodded simply, still considering. 

“We do have remarkable smithies in this city. Lucky, hmm?” Stiles offered him another pleasant grin, before looking around. Something caught his eyes, and his feet led him to wander before his mind could tell him to hold still. It was a common malady for the active teen. Looking over the wares at the table he’d been drawn to, he saw what had caught his attention, looking it over from a distance. Derek had watched in slight confusion, before tentatively following after without hesitation.

The object in question was a blunt looking dagger forged in shining white gold. It couldn’t have been more than ten inches. The grip was small and unassuming besides it’s intricate woven pattern. Lines crossing each other in a graceful mesmerizing fashion. They stretched and wrapped until they came to a bundled stop at the blade’s subtle guard. More etching designs entwined down the blade in an almost reptilian scaled arrangement. In all, the blade, besides being tastefully minimal, was modest. The most captivating part would be the pommel which encased a bewitching, blood red ruby. It was obvious that whoever had crafted this blade had done so with great care, and skill. It was a dagger fitting for a prince.

Stiles slowly let his hands linger on the edge of the blade, eyeing it with desire. Though he would not mention it aloud, the prince knew precisely what this blade really was. It was an athame. A tool used in the craft to focus ones magical energies. Stiles briefly thought of asking the vendor if he knew of what he was selling before he stayed his tongue. He need not attract attention to himself, lest he endanger himself and his fellow witches. Instead, he slid his fingers down the blade and sighed, turning his attention back to Derek.

“So what does the Black Wolf do in his spare time?” The prince asked with a sly grin. Stiles had already left the table and resumed his stroll. “Does he visit the pub and drink himself sick? Or does he chase around rodents and set himself a feast?” Stiles bumped his shoulder playfully into Derek’s. It was a simple jest, one they both knew the prince didn’t take seriously. Stiles had more than once assured Derek that he knows without a doubt that Derek is not the horrible man the town makes him out to be.

Derek snorted; a short abrupt sound that made his amusement known. He glanced over to his side to see Stiles glowing and overjoyed. The sight of him made Derek’s heart jump. He swallowed heavily, avoiding to explore the newfound warmth that was spreading through his chest. That was when he noticed it. Most of the people around them were staring, pointedly whispering in their direction.

“Why is the prince walking with that filthy animal?”

“Have you seen it? How the Black Wolf flaunts his Highness’ crest?”

“They say the Prince takes an obscene liking to that man”

The ignorant accusations had Derek feeling murderous. He was having trouble stifling the urge to don his claws and butcher the foolish gossipers. Though he would never risk revealing the existence of werewolves to the humans. That is when a thought struck him. Never before had the rumors of this kingdom bothered him. Why would they have an effect now? It was in that moment that he understood. It was not for his own repute that he was trying to defend, but the prince’s. That within itself was yet another startling realization.

Though, Stiles was oblivious to the slander on his good standing. The prince was still smiling, now completely content in his walk with Derek. Silence filled the air as they reached the edge of the busy market which gave way to a public garden. Their leisurely pace began to slow to a halt as Stiles stared off into the distance.

Derek’s senses were assaulted by an overbearing amount of grief and he found himself looking over to Stiles. The prince’s gaze had become fixated on the plentiful flora that littered the large, scenic alcove. A gardened square in the circular cities maze like layout. It was filled with bushels of exotic plants and brilliant and vividly colored flowers. There was a simple labyrinth within the area that was the focal point of the gardens. Most of the town's people knew of the fountain that was found at its center. Derek had personally never seen it. In fact, the walk with the prince had been the most he’s allowed himself to explore the kingdom’s grounds.

Stiles let his mind become engulfed with the realism of tomorrow’s significance. It felt like a burden and no matter how hard he tried, it always pulled him under. He couldn’t help but remember the frail and fragile hand of his mother. How he tucked her lifeless limb back to her side. That, despite all the magick and herbal remedies and the lively energy of the world, none of it mattered. None of it could save her.

He had memories of her here, in the public gardens. How she would run into the maze, and they would purposely get lost. How they would cast spells and enchantments that would lead each other to the middle. How she would pick him up and praise him for his natural talents.

Without another moment's thought, he headed for the maze, Derek unfalteringly at his side. The lack of sound between them felt heavy. Usually the silence was one sided. Derek didn’t like it when Stiles was quiet, too. Stiles glanced over to the man who at one point he had thought was a simple barbarian. Much had changed over the preceding weeks. Their talks enlightened Stiles to the way a man’s character was rarely what it seemed at first impression. Derek was a man of intelligence and wit, whether he allowed himself to believe it or not. Stiles had slowly come to understand that as the Black Wolf filled his every thought. Their chats were all he would look forward too from the moment he woke. The infatuation he harbored had taken root and manifested something... _else_. 

Something... _dangerous_.

But the prince could not deny the connection he felt with Derek, nor could he deny the intensity of his sentiments. Which was why he began to speak on a topic he dared not speak of to anyone.

“My mother and I used to play in these gardens.” He began. “She would run in and I would chase her. She would hide and I was meant to find her.” A sad smile found his lips. His gaze settled on the green walls of the maze. “It would never fail, that she would be waiting for me at the center.”

Derek said nothing, taking note in the frantic beating of Stiles’ heart, and the stench of sorrow so thick it was suffocating. Stiles stopped, now deep within the maze, far from the spectators of the town. He reached out and clutched at the wall of greenery. Derek leveled his eyes on him inquisitively. 

“Tomorrow is the seventh anniversary of her death.” Those whispered words drove a pang into Derek, deep within his soul. He suddenly understood why the prince seemed so off today; why his moods were so inconsistent. Why his usually overwhelming optimism and cheerful expressions faltered before Stiles would mask them with feigned happiness or random banter.

“She was so kind,” Stiles continued, “she didn’t let proper etiquette dictate her judgement. She did what her heart told her was right” Stiles lowered his hand and began walking again. Derek steady at his side.

“She loved the gardens. She had her own, you know. She tended to it often. I admit, I found myself jealous of her flowers.” He attempted to end it with a laugh, but it was too forced. Too obvious.

They turned the corner and suddenly they were greeted by the sight of a small, open area. A three-tier fountain at its center. The water was crystal blue. The fountain itself was octagonal in shape; each side etched in deep, hypnotizing designs. The usually bland green walls of the maze were peppered with flowers, vibrant and vivid in their color. The fiery glow of twilight beamed in from the west giving the illusion of a perfect paradise.

Stiles made his way over to the fountain, sitting on its edge. He sighed, long and weary.

“She was perfect.” Stiles murmured. It lingered in the air. Derek was unsure of how to respond. Surely there was something he was meant to say. A gesture of comfort? A reassurance? A customary apology? No. Derek knows loss himself; none of those things would ever come close to soothing the hurt that comes with the passing of a loved one.

“My family is dead." Derek broke the silence "They all perished in a fire long ago.” Stiles’ head jerked, his eyes wide and mouth gaping up at the man. Derek was looking at the fountain, but he could see Stiles clearly through his peripheral. Stiles’ gaze softened as his posture slouched.

“I know.” The prince replied. He was regarded with a look of surprise, and confusion. Derek didn’t speak, but his face said it all. Shamefully, Stiles looked away, and took a deep breath. 

“People talk. You know they do. I’ve heard a lot of things. Most of it I don’t believe though.” He added that last part hastily, to reassure Derek that he didn’t think he was a half-man creature that slunk through the streets at night eating cats and raping young women. “I knew, the moment I found out who you were, that you didn’t do what people say you did. You didn’t set the fire.”

Derek was dumbfounded. Lost for words. No one had ever thought so highly of him. Not since he’d become a self-exiled omega. For this princeling, who had so boldly forced a spot for himself in Derek’s life, and steadily his heart, to get to the root of his demons... It was just another layer of his locks and chains peeled away. It left him feeling raw, and vulnerable. Grateful. Swallowing hard, he clenched his jaw tighter as he stared at the fountain twice as hard as before. 

“How are you so certain?” He asked. Derek hadn’t intended for his voice to break when he spoke, but it did, words trailing off weakly as he looked away. Stiles surprised him again by reaching out and clasping his slender fingers around Derek’s broad wrist. The contact made the wolf’s fingers contract slightly in response. Like he’d been shocked.

“I’ve known you long enough to get a good measure of you. You are the complete opposite of a heartless man. Only a monster would willfully do such a thing. You are no monster, whatever you believe yourself to be.” The words hung heavy on Derek’s heart. No one had ever tried to comfort him, or take his side. He’d never allowed anyone to. From Stiles, it was almost like a salve. For the first time in ages, the burning ache that plagued his heart was soothed, just a little. Stiles shook his head slightly once more. “When I look at you, I do not see a heartless man. I see a man who has been stripped raw of the people he loves and the home he knew.” He assured gently. His eyes were as imploring as his tone. Derek’s shoulders sank a little.

Relief... It was relief that flooded him this time. 

Silently, he moved his hand, as if he were drawing away. Instead of breaking the contact, his strong fingers carefully fit against the prince’s, and locked there. 

“Thank you.” Derek breathed out, eyes closed for a brief moment as the reverent sound barely escaped his lips. Opening his lids, he found his gaze drawn to the younger man’s, holding a moment of deeper understanding between them.

Derek almost felt as if he were looking at the prince for the first time. With the slowly descending sun lighting the kingdom gold, it’s reflection off the pooling fountain cast a warm glow against Stiles’ flesh and lit his eyes in a way that made the hardened warrior’s breath catch. Eyes that seemed unable to settle on which feature they wanted to look at. Derek could feel Stiles’ gaze shifting, from his own eyes, to a spot further down his face. If you’d asked him in that moment where they were, Derek wouldn’t have been able to tell. All he knew was Stiles, and the sudden, swelling need to touch him. He wanted to reach out and breech the space between them. No matter how perilous it might be. 

Stiles leaned up from his temporary perch on the fountain. Standing, his gaze was level with Derek’s. The air between them was thin as the prince quickly wet his lips and let out a shuddering breath. His eyes slowly fluttered close as he leaned forward slightly. Derek’s heart leapt, swallowing heavily before fixing his eyes on Stiles’ mouth. His entire existence was pulling him towards the prince with a forbidden intent and he couldn’t find it in himself to care of consequences or repercussions. He threw all thought and reservations to the wind and subtly tightened his grip on the prince’s hand, pulling him closer and shutting his own eyes with the sole purpose of joining their lips.

**“HEAR YE, HEAR YE! THE HOUR OF CURFEW IS NEAR!”**

Derek snarled and jerked back, looking over his shoulder towards the screaming town crier, ringing his bell, declaring the hour as he walked through the city and marketplace. Of course he couldn’t see him through the foliage of the organic labyrinth, but he could pinpoint his exact position. It would have been all too easy to find and kill him. His attention diverted back to Stiles quickly, when he felt the prince’s fingers steal away from his gently. Never had his hand felt so empty before. 

“I suppose this is goodbye for now. Goodnight, Black Wolf. I’ll see you tomorrow.” His eyes were wistful for the moment they’d just lost and he turned, hurrying out of the fountain square to return to the palace. Derek couldn’t help but watch him until he was no longer visible, the tiniest of grins pulling across his lips.

* * *

Before he could return to his shanty across town, Derek went back to the market, heading straight for the table where he could clearly remember Stiles lingering before. Still on the table, was the beautiful dagger. 

“No, no, we’re closed sir. You heard the crier.” The vendor tried to object, a portly man of growing age. Derek flashed a warning glare to him, picking up the dagger to inspect it. It was a quality blade, that much was certain.

“If you must...” The vendor drawled out in a wary voice. “5 silver pieces.” He demanded. Derek looked at him offended before glancing back at the table. Something else caught his eyes and he snatched it up. He knew this item... It was one from his old kingdom. The symbol on it, the Triskele, it was the same as his family’s insignia.

“This and the dagger for 5 silver pieces and I won’t report you for selling stolen wares.” Derek ground out from between his teeth, tossing him the proper amount of coins before stalking away from the table.


	4. Chapter 4

“Good morning, your Highness! Tis a bright and beautiful day!” Scott chirped, far too happy for Stiles’ weary ears. Especially since the prince could hardly find it in himself to sleep properly the night before. Try as he might, the day with Derek had replayed in his mind many times. All his attempts to absolve himself of them were futile. So was the notion that he could stifle the grin that had stolen his lips.

Without warning, the large, red curtains that surrounded his opulent bed were swiftly pulled back. Blinding sunlight stung at the prince’s eyes. Stiles hissed in exasperation, grabbing the comforter and pulling it up to shield his face.

“Leave me be, Scott.” He all but groaned, using his friend's name like a swear word. The vassal sighed, clearly annoyed with the difficult prince, before he walked to the large bed, gripped the comforter and ripped them from Stiles’ clutches off the end of the mattress. The prince yelped and grabbed a pillow to cover his face.

“I hate you! I hate you more than I’ve ever hated anything!” He whined, though the pillow had it sounding muffled and barely audible. Scott rolled his eyes. He’d long gotten used to waking Stiles in the morning. Prying the prince from his bed was no small feat, but over the years, Scott had become quite the expert. In fact, he was the only person in the castle who dared do it.

“I don’t know, Stiles. Perhaps I shall tell the Black Wolf of the time I found you suckling your thumb whilst you slept a few months ago?” Scott all but sing songed.

Stiles threw the pillow to the side, casting a menacing glare at his friend.

“You know as well as I do, the _only_ reason that happened was from one too many drinks that night. And it only happened _once_.” He replied, low and dangerous.

“One time too many, _your Highness_ ” Scott quipped back, completely nonplussed by his sires tone and expression.

Stiles kept his glare firmly in place, though his previous state of sleep had him looking more dazed than threatening. Scott only leveled him with a mischievous grin. After a moment, Stiles sported a look of distress.

“Fine! I’m up! Are you happy now? I will be like the dead all day, meandering as a soulless corpse. If any are to ask, I will simply inform them that my vassal forced me into this state.” He tossed the dramatic threats even as he shifted to sit up. Scott only shook his head, chuckling to himself. He wandered over to the prince’s armoire and ruffled around before pulling out some clothing. He laid the outfit onto the dressing table before turning back to his friend. Stiles was rubbing at his eyes, trying in earnest to rid the grogginess from his mind.

“Also, a parcel had arrived for you early this morning. It is... strange, there was no message or crest.. no note of who sent it listed” Scott supplied offhandedly. He was obviously curious about what it was. Mention of the the mystery package had the prince’s immediate and complete attention. He willed his mind to focus. It was not uncommon for the prince to receive a parcel from the many admirers of other kingdoms that had vied for his regard, though all of them had their origin clearly stated. For what was the point in sending parcel meant to captivate only not to be known for your endeavors?

That didn’t quell his mind from supplying, from somewhere deep in its midsts, that this particular package was from a certain brooding warrior. In that moment, Stiles was longing for this obscure delivery.

“Where is it? The package?” He inquired, trying to sound indifferent. Scott raised his brow in interest. When did his vassal become so perceptive? Stiles was so used to Scott’s unfalteringly dense mind. Only recently, instead of being the clueless puppy that Stiles was so used to, had he become as observant as a hawk. 

“It is here,” Scott replied, while lifting the unassuming package from the chair it had just occupied. “Do you intend to open it now?” He finished inquisitively. Stiles flailed wildly as he scrambled from the bed to seize the parcel. Ungracefully, he had become entangled with his sheets and met the floor in an embarrassingly intimate fashion. Scott, almost as if he had guessed Stiles’ reaction, held the package high above his head. The prince, after unwrapping himself, jumped to grab at the package. Stiles had whined, in a completely dignified and royal fashion, of course.

“Stop jesting! Give it to me!” He wailed. Scott only laughed before tossing the parcel to his friend. Stiles’ face lit up in anticipation. He made quick work of the bindings, unwrapping the fine black cloth that enclosed it. The sight he was met with stilled his breath.

The Athame he had seen in the market during his walk with Derek, lay shining in the stark contrast of the dark fabric it had been wrapped in. Stiles let his fingers brush over the blade, eyeing the dagger with adoration. His chest swelled as his lips curled into a smile. Once again, the thoughts of yesterday played through his mind. How he had shared a part of himself with the Black Wolf that no one had ever seen. How Derek had confided in him to tell the prince the truth of his family. Of how their fingers had locked; the feel of the man’s flesh burning hot like a brand in Stiles’ own. How the overpowering need to feel him had captivated Stiles like a trance.

Then, something else had caught his eye. His hand reached for what appeared to be a small, yet intricate ring. On its front was the symbol of three swirls, triangular in their position. He held the ring between his fingers, running his thumb across the crest. There was something unusually alluring about it. That is why, without a moment of conflict, he slipped the ring onto his finger. It slid on the digit with ease; resting on his skin like a promise. The prince smiled.

Scott cleared his throat, effectively breaking the spell that had taken Stiles completely. The prince faced his friend, still wearing a soft smile.

“I assume you know of whom sent them?” Scott asked, with a knowing expression. Stiles’ smile had only stretched further.

“My wolf sent them.” Was all that Stiles would supply. Scott shrugged, whether it was in confusion or disinterest was indiscernible. He went to work on setting the prince’s mess of a bed back into an impeccable display of perfection before finally speaking again.

“Oh, I almost forgot!” He said in a rush, “I am to tell you that your father requires your presence at breakfast in the dining room this morning. He wants to speak with you. I hope you haven’t teased the guards enough that they are tattling on you again.” Stiles rolled his eyes, grabbing his clothes and dressing. Normally he ate quickly in the kitchens, not interested in an extravagant breakfast in the dining hall. If his father wanted him to break their fast together, it certainly meant a lecture was coming. He was quick to ready himself and then made way to the throne room. He idly played with the ring. The ring that was so comfortable sitting on his left hand; on the third finger from his thumb. The feel of its etching elicited a grin from the prince.

He quickly found himself before the doors of the dining room. He bowed slightly to the guards on either side as they opened the way for him. They returned the gesture as he strolled passed them.

When he saw his scowling, angry father, he could feel his good mood slowly slipping away.

* * *

  

“...Father. Good morning... Scott informed me that you wished to speak with me... But now I’m wondering if I should have escaped when I had the chance...” He tried to joke, to lighten the air. It seemed to do nothing to appease his fathers dour mood. The king straightened in his chair at the head of the table. 

“Genim, sit.” He directed, motioning to the place setting at his right hand.

“Stiles, Father. _Stiles_.” He urged in reminder. The king was normally good about remembering his preference but sometimes when he was angry, it slipped.

“Stiles...” The king sighed, eyes leveled on his only son. 

“Yes, father?” Stiles was piling his plate high with food from the dishes before them. He barely glanced over at his name.

“Stiles, I need you to focus for a moment here, alright?” Pausing, Stiles lowered his hands and looked up at the King finally.

“If you’re going to yell at me about the pranks, can I point out now that I’ve hardly pulled any at all this week. There was the one with the bucket, but everyone had a good laugh at that one.”

“It’s not about the pranks! Stiles, just, stop speaking, and listen to me. I.... I am concerned about your other activities as of late. Your sudden interest in The Crucible... You haven’t been acting... normal.” Stiles immediately felt himself throw up a defensive aura. He looked taken aback.

“I thought you wanted me to start taking part in things like The Crucible.” He accused, frowning. 

“Yes, but not for the reasons that have brought your interest to that arena.” The words were blunt, leaving no question about what he was alluding to.

“And what reasons might you be speaking of, father?” Stiles' tone was dangerous, his jaw muscles flexing as he tried to bite back more words.

“The Black Wolf Knight.” The king finally stated, laying it out on the table as readily as the currently-forgotten food.

“What about him?” 

“It’s inappropriate for you to consort with the likes of him.” 

“Why? What have you against him? If anything, he has helped your kingdom by bringing fame, and spectators to watch your Crucible. Men come from all over the continent to battle him.” Stiles was on the edge of his seat, trying to make his father see through positive words that Derek wasn’t bad.

“He is a murderer, a drifter, the things people say about him are... something I cannot overlook, and do not want tainting on our royal name by your... friendship with him!”

Stiles leaned back, staring at his father in disbelief.

“I always though you a man who never took rumors and lies to heart without first searching out the proof to confirm them.” He snapped.

“These are things I cannot ignore if my son is consorting with a criminal!” The king’s fist slammed down onto the table, the silverware and plates rattling.

“He’s not a criminal! You have no idea what you’re talking about Father!”

“Do you think me a fool, Stiles? I know of your _affections_ for him. Did you honestly expect me to allow this affair to continue?!” Stiles sputtered at his father, offended and panicked.

“There is no ‘affair’ to continue! Are you comparing me to some two bit tramp? He is my _friend_ , father, not my _lover_! And even if he were, that is _my_ business, and _my_ prerogative!”

"Stiles! Do you know anything at all about this man?! Seriously!" The king demanded, growing irate at how obstinate his son was being. Stiles had pushed from the table, the wooden legs of his chair screeching over stone as it slid out, prepared to storm from the room when those words came to him. He jerked to face his father once more, frozen in place.

"Do you? What do you know of him? Tell me, please, since you seem to think you know his motives, and his character?" Stiles demanded.

"His motives and character are irrelevant, Stiles! You have a duty to your kingdom, to me, to your mother! And that duty does not include consorting with a savage beast of a warrior who is infamous for having massacred his entire family!" Stiles was practically trembling with his unrestrained emotions.

"Don't talk to me about mother! You've spent the last decade _not_ talking about her at all, you don't have the right to talk to me about her now! I never asked for this! Find a different prince to whore out to some cow of a spoiled brat to get your bairne! Or better yet! Do it yourself, and make a better son than me! I’ve obviously failed your expectations!" And with those words echoing in the room, the king’s face shocked from the sudden outburst from his usually pleasant son. Stiles never spoke in rage like this. In sarcasm, and dry wit, yes, but never in such vicious rage and... almost hatred. He didn't call out to stop his son from leaving the room this time, watching his figure until he turned out of sight.

Quietly, the king sank down into his chair, closing his eyes and sighing, rubbing a hand over his tired, haggard face. In just the last few years, it seemed as if he'd aged a hundred times over. 

"Oh, Moira... Help me. I don't know what to do." He whispered his quiet prayer.

 

* * *

 

Stiles slammed the door to his room. Screamed into the empty space. Hoping to release the intense anger that was consuming him. He found his way to his bed, crashing down onto the plush mattress. He let the rage burn within himself. Let it take over as he reached out and clutched a pillow. He punched it, and then again and again. Hoping to release the bubbling fury overwhelming his every thought.

“Who the hell does he think he is?” He shouted to no one. The simple act of voicing his frustrations were relieving. That was, until he was met with a reply.

“Last I checked, he is the king and your father.” Stiles’ head whipped towards his door. An older looking man in glorious white armor. His piercing green eyes burned into Stiles’. The crest of the Argent’s shone a brilliant gold on his chestplate. Stiles shot the man an equally deadly glare.

“Chris...” He all but hissed. “Leave me be.” Chris grinned, a wicked curl to his lips.

“As you wish, your Highness.” He replied bitterly. He lingered, his glare assessing; judging. Then he left. Only seconds later, Scott came into view, a worried expression on his face.

“Was that...?”

“Chris Argent, my father’s personal guard dog.” Stiles’ spat. The prince sighed, the presence of his friend oddly calming. His shoulders drooped slightly, tension flooding from his tired body. Scott sensed his distress and came to sit beside him.

“I heard the king forbids you from attending the Crucible” he said. Stiles’ eyes felt heavy; their normal sheen of vibrance lost.

“I fear I may be falling for him.” The prince uttered. His voice laced with a tired grief. Though it was hushed enough in confidence that it was only Scott’s ears they reached. Stiles didn’t need to elaborate, they both knew he spoke of the Black Wolf. His friend gave him a sympathetic look and clasped Stiles’ shoulder.

“I know. I’ve known since the first day we went to the Crucible. I mean, you gave him your kerchief for God’s sake. Not only that, but you’ve been putting me on watch every day since then so you could meet with him.” Stiles looked up at his friend sheepishly, relieved that there was no judgement in Scott’s gaze. The prince groaned and let his head fall into his hands.

“How did this happen? I have the worst luck. I know why my father worries. I am his only son and I am full aware of my duties as prince, but...” He trailed off, letting the realization wash over him like a wave. His heart clenched in his chest as his hands slid up through his hair. He licked his lips before facing Scott.

“I am not like other men, Scott. I can not find love in a woman. I know... I know that this behavior is condemnable, but I can’t fight it. I can’t lie to myself and bury who I truly am.” It was a truth he had never admitted aloud before. Though he was more than sure that Scott had already known. Stiles had often spoken about men’s physique in adoration. The prince knew from a young age that he had taken a liking to those of his own gender where his affections should have been pointed at woman instead. He finally took action a year ago when a soft spoken slave boy had expressed his interest in the prince. Stiles had taken the opportunity to explore his forbidden desires. Though they did nothing but touch, the elation he felt was palpable. Without the need of a kiss or the salacious acts of release, he knew in their simple exploration of each other’s flesh that he was different. That his fancy for men was exclusive and absolute.

Scott squeezed his friend’s shoulder, hoping to convey a sincerity.

“I know, Stiles. I’ve known for a while. I do not judge you. You are still you, no matter who you choose to love” Scott said with an infectious smile. The prince’s anger ebbed away with those comforting words. The only thing left were the feelings of a scared and distraught child. Tears swelled in his eyes as he fell into his friend’s offered arms. Scott held onto him and stroked his back.

“Damn it all, Scott. What am I supposed to do? I need to see him. I’m always there. What if he thinks that I’ve abandoned him? I can’t do that to him. Not after the dreadful life he’s had. I... I can’t...” He trailed off in a fit of sobs. Scott did his best to soothe his friend, but it was too far in vain. He wanted to help, in some way. To assure Stiles that it would be okay, but he didn’t know if it would sound convincing to his own ears. Scott couldn’t go to the Crucible without accompanying the prince, so the hope of delivering some sort of message was a futile notion. All parcels from the prince would be heavily inspected and the thought of sending another servant was too risky. If the prince’s true nature was to be known, it could put the whole kingdom in jeopardy.

So Scott could only run his hand down his friend’s back and do his best to quell the constant stream of tears that ran from Stiles’ face. It hurt. His chest felt constricted watching his friend cry out in a bitter sadness. 

“It’s okay, Stiles. We’ll figure this out. You’re the smartest man I know, I’m sure you’re already planning some grand scheme that will likely have us thrown in the dungeons for weeks” he tried at jesting. The prince gave a sob-filled huff of laughter.

“You’re so dumb Scott” Stiles said. He pulled himself from his friends arms, a sad grin on his face. He wiped his face and sniffed to try and clear his nose so he could breathe. Scott smiled back. He couldn’t bring Stiles the man he had fallen for, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still make him laugh. He squeezed his friend’s shoulder again before standing.

“Now let us go fill the Guardsmen’s boots with manure. I know that always cheers you up.” Stiles laughed. A little less sob, more jovial. He shook his head and stood.

“Oh Scott. You always know just what to say.” He bumped his friend’s shoulder lightly before heading for his door. Scott smiled. At least he could take Stiles’ mind off things even if it was just for a little while.

 

* * *

 

Uneasy. That was the only way to explain how Derek felt as he sat on his bench, alone. It didn’t seem like long ago he cherished this silence, but now it was deafening. His back was tense, tight with anticipation. Any moment, his prince would walk through the doors, and come to him out of breath and red in the face. With some long story of why he was late. Most likely being chased by the guard again. But minutes ticked by like years, and his mind raced with worries. 

What if the gift had offended him?

What if he had been too forward? Had he misread Stiles all this time? His heart was starting to ache with fear. A bitter, strangling emotion that he hadn't felt in a very long time. With such a simple act, this princeling had reduced him to a raw, vulnerable man. Consciously, he tried to tell himself that it was okay. That something had come up, and he’d be there. He’d just be late. He’d look up to the stands after the match, victorious, and see Stiles’ face beaming down at him like always. The only one in the stands who would be cheering for him, instead of cursing him.

The horns blared, calling the warriors to the gate. Hastily, he tied the handkerchief around his arm, and pulled on his helm, rushing out to the arena.

As the match was announced, Derek scanned the stands for Stiles. No one was occupying the royal booth. Not even the king. His heart was in his throat, as he tried to shake it off, hand finding a grip on his glaive. The poleaxe felt like it could tell Derek was out of sorts, it’s weight awkward in his grasp.

‘ _God.... Let me survive this match.’_ He begged quietly, for the first time ever.

A clang of metal snapped him out of his mind, but not quick enough to brace himself for the impact of a heavy sword glancing off of his back, sparks from the metal grinding over his armor stinging the nape of his neck. Snarling, Derek spun around, using the momentum of his movement to swing his heavy weapon around, cleaving his attackers head from his body in one fell swoop. He delivered a vicious roar, his battle cry, before pouring himself into the fight.

* * *

  

Staggering, breathing hard, Derek stood over his last felled enemy. His chest was heaving as he leaned heavily on his glaive. It was slick with blood, as was the rest of him. His rage was evident on the battlefield, and in the silence of the stands. His opponents corpses were in pieces today, and strewn about the muddied field like autumn leaves. Scattered so intricately that it was impossible to tell which limb had belonged to each warrior that had entered the ring that day. 

No one dared to heckle him as he pulled his helmet off. Sweat stung his eyes, and matted his hair to his scalp. He shook it away, as he leaned forward, taking up the torn halves of the blood soaked handkerchief from his fallen opponents lifeless grasp. Fisting his hand around the shredded remains of fabric, Derek quietly walked away from the field, to the holding room. He didn’t have to look up to the stands to know that Stiles wasn’t there. 

 

* * *

 

Night had finally crept upon the kingdom, the moon perched high into the dark of night. Its silver glow cast a dim light below. A male figure crept from the castle, his identity hidden by a cloak of blood red scarlet. His destination: The Forbidden Wood.

Silently, with a shadowy guile, the man made his way past the confines of the kingdom. Swiftly crossing the bridge that led way to the woods beyond its gates.

It didn’t take much time for the silent figure to breach the line of the forest and make his way inside. He ventured deep, farther than any person would dare. 

He had quickly found what it is he sought. Before him, in a small clearing of the forest, where the trees gave way to a circular expanse; basking in the moon’s light, was a small patch of Asphodel.

He walked slowly, untying the small pouch that had been secured to his belt and knelt before the foliage. He reached out; slender, pale fingers lingering on the ghostly gray petals before plucking the lily from the earth. He was sure to grab many, stuffing the small pouch as full as it would allow.

When finished, the once prosperous, floral meadow laid barren and plain. The figure hesitated. Frowning at the sight of a now empty expanse. His eyes skimmed the area around him, a paranoia creeping up his spine before turning back to the ground in front of him. He reached out and laid a delicate hand to the earth; digging his fingers into the soil; his head leaned in with the movement.

“ _Flos Renascentia”_ He whispered into the earth.

A pulse of brilliant green light wormed from his slender fingers, burrowing deep within the dirt. Slowly, and simultaneously, strings of green sprang from ground, twirling and twisting. After a short length, they stalled, sprouting petals of ghostly grey lined with a sorrowful yellow.

The meadow was thriving with Asphodel once more.

However, the scarlet clad enigma did not notice the gleaming blue eyes, watching from within the shadows.

* * *

 

Derek stilled. He held his breath as his claws and fangs extended and his eyes glowed blue. The pungent smell that was unmistakably magick left a bitter taste in his mouth. He kept to the shadows, watching from afar the figure in the distance. Fury burned him up from the inside. The mere thought of magick had him itching to maim on a good day. Now he had bared witness to it in action. The sight of it had him vibrating with rage.

Shifting slightly, preparing to attack, Derek's foot inadvertently caught on a twig, snapping the dry branch loudly. It’s sound echoed in the clearing, and the figure spun to locate the source of the noise, fear and panic blatant on his face.

Derek felt his already pained heart jerk in his chest, his stomach dropping as he realized...

‘ _Don’t run... God, please, don’t run Stiles... I won’t be able to help myself...’_ Derek thought desperately as he held his breath. Thoughts of his customs; the traditions of his people, of Werewolves, stole his mind. He knew, without a doubt, that Stiles’ running would initiate the second segment of his race’s courtship. Derek’s blood ran hot in anticipation, his body already betraying his human mind. The beast within hungering to stake its claim on his potential mate.

Like a spooked deer, unable to see who watched him, Stiles took a half breath, and then he was running. Darting in the opposite direction, the prince's cloak whipped behind him, forcing his scent back to Derek.

The internal struggle of betrayal and need that Derek had been fighting was immediately flooded from his mind as his senses were overwhelmed with Stiles' scent. He gave chase without thought, tearing off after the prince who had an irrelevant head-start. There was no way that Stiles could outrun him. The chase was a thrill for Derek, and his inner beast. It was a flirt. An invitation to assert his dominance by showing his strength and power. His ability to catch his mate.

Ducking around trees, Stiles was lithe, and quick. His usual clumsiness temporarily dispelled as he desperately ran for his life. It only served to excite Derek more as he followed easily. Even if he couldn’t see or hear Stiles as plain as daylight, he’d be able to follow his scent. That unmistakably, mouthwatering aroma that was so distinctly and uniquely _Stiles_. They couldn’t have run more than a mile before Derek finally caught up to the boy, grabbing the prince around the waist and spinning him around to stop his momentum. 

Derek's fists clenched into that crimson fabric, slamming Stiles back against a wide, old tree. Stiles struggled, sobbing for air as the impact had temporarily knocked the breath from his lungs.

“Please!” He wheezed, desperately grappling at the hands that held him in place. “Please don’t kill me!”

“Stop moving!” Derek snapped, forcing himself to come under control, pushing the change back so that when Stiles opened his eyes, he would see Derek’s human face only.

“What....D-Derek?” Stiles asked weakly as he sagged a little, sweat dripping down his face.

“What are you doing out here, Stiles? What were you doing in that glade?” Derek demanded viciously, his glare hard on the prince. “Would you care to explain to me what I saw back there?”

Stiles heart sank, shifting uneasily as he licked his lips, trying to come up with an explanation. Derek's patience was thin. He shook Stiles firmly.

“Tell me! Are you a witch?!” Derek’s eyes burned, wanting to flash icy blue as his wolf tried to rise to the surface. He forced it back. What he could not force away, though, was the memories of Kate, and her fearsome power. The tangy stench of magick that she had reeked of, and that he had smelled from Stiles just moments before. The way she wore her power like an accessory, her magick doing her destructive bidding.

“I know your kind, Stiles! Harbingers of evil! Witches! How could you not tell me?” Stiles felt panic, and anger now, mingled with hurt.

“Evil? No! Derek, no, please you have to listen to me! I’m not evil! Witches aren’t bad! Please just... Please let me explain! You have to listen to me! I never lied to you but I couldn’t tell you! They’d have killed me! You know the Church, and the Templars destroy anything they think of as evil! I had to keep it secret. It wasn’t safe! I’ve never hurt anyone before, and I wouldn’t ever use my Magick to hurt an innocent person! I couldn’t if I tried! P-please Derek!” His voice broke, tears stinging at his eyes now as they welled up, spilling over. “You have to trust me, please!”

“Shut up.” Derek ordered, but without the same level of vicious anger as he’d spoken with before. He still glared angrily at the prince’s shattered expression, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel as much rage as when he’d initially smelled the magick on him. This was Stiles. He knew the prince. He knew him well. Stiles had been nothing but good, and kind to him... 

Inhaling deeply, Derek looked Stiles over quietly, and then cast his eyes aside. He wasn’t lying. He’d know if he was. The bond between them was stronger than before, after The Chase. He could start to feel Stiles’ emotions, the empathy between them growing. It calmed him enough that he could raise his head to look at Stiles once more. Really look at him.

After a moment, it struck him, how ridiculous he was to think he could compare Stiles to Kate. While Kate’s aura had always been dangerous, and seductive, her behavior controlling and greedy... Stiles was pure. His own presence was light, and implicitly good.

Carefully, Derek released Stiles, and they both relaxed more.

“I believe you.” Derek exhaled gently. Those three words were the hardest he’d had to utter in a very long time. Silence reigned for a few moments between them as Stiles caught his breath.

“You have to let me explain, Derek. I need to tell you.” Derek shook his head. 

“I don’t-”

“Please.” Stiles interrupted, resting his hand on Derek’s shoulder gently. After another long moment, he silently nodded.

“My mother was a witch, of the old faith. In tune with the Earth, and the elements. She was good, and kind, and she taught me everything she knew. It was everything to her, and to me too. We would walk through the city and invigorate the gardens in times of drought, she often helped those who were ill, or infertile... We aren’t bad. There are witches who choose to forsake the benevolent ways, to become Sorcerers. I could never be like... that. I.. I only do magick because it’s all I have left of her, Derek. It’s my only tie left to my mother. I can keep doing good, in her memory, so that she can continue to live on in the magick I cast. That’s all. I swear.”

At some point in all of his explaining, Stiles had slid down to sit on the ground, resting his legs from the impromptu run they’d taken. Derek felt awkward standing alone, so he had sat down as well, listening intently. The talk of Stiles' lost mother... it resonated within him. Derek had nothing like that, to tie him to his mother. He could hardly remember her face anymore.

Sighing heavily, Derek rubbed a hand over his face, before bending one leg up a bit from the ground, resting his arm on his knee. Quietly, he looked over Stiles, making sure he was okay. Stiles was rubbing his hands over his thighs to try and calm his stressed muscles. In the moonlight, something glinted. Derek’s eyes focused sharply on the ring, sitting blatantly on Stiles’ finger. Relief flooded him out of nowhere. Stiles had liked his gift. He had been so worried they would be ill-received... But he was wearing his family's insignia...

“Why weren’t you at the arena today?” Derek asked softly, interrupting whatever story Stiles had launched into. He went quiet, and looked at Derek apologetically.

“I’m sorry about that... I.... Father has forbidden me from attending The Crucible.” Stiles explained wryly. Shocked, Derek frowned deeply.

“Why? That’s ridiculous.” He growled out.

“Well... There are rumors... About you and I. And Father has decided to believe them, and doesn’t want us to see each other anymore. He wishes for me to focus on choosing a wife, and popping out heirs for him, to continue the bloodline.” Stiles sounded disgusted at the very idea. Derek swallowed thickly as he listened, and inhaled shakily. The thought of anyone touching Stiles in an intimate way quickly ignited a jealous fury inside him. The mere implication of someone touching _his_ mate had him ready to kill. He purged the thought with some difficulty and focused.

“I’m sorry. I should have realized people would talk. I... I didn’t mean to taint your reputation, your Highness.” He said in a ragged voice. Stiles huffed at him in irritation, reaching over to set his ringed hand on one of Derek’s.

“Don’t be an idiot. I don’t care about any of that. You didn’t do anything to me, or my reputation. Derek...” The warrior's name slid off Stiles' tongue like it belonged in his mouth. “I don’t care what my father thinks. Or anyone else, for that matter. You are a good man.” Leaning in, Stiles’ face was composed into a desperate expression. He wanted Derek to know this. He wanted him to believe it too.

Derek was drawn in towards him as well, the breath between them heady and thick. It was far too much space, but a force unbeknownst to them pulled at their bodies, urging them closer.

Before either of them could finally close the distance between them, Derek jerked back, upright, his face alert and drawn with attention. He could hear another human heartbeat, and breathing. it wasn’t very close, but close enough to be a problem. 

“Stiles, you have to go. Hurry. Return to the castle. Someone is watching us.” They both stood quickly, Stiles catching Derek’s hand again as the wolf turned to find the source of their stalker.

“Derek... Thank you. For everything. It’s more than I should ask of you, but I appreciate your trust, and secrecy. It is a heavy burden, but it means much to me.” Derek looked with a baited breath.

‘ _If only you knew my secret...’_  

Derek lifted Stiles' hand, grazing his lips over the knuckle that rested above the ring.

“Run, Prince. Hurry.” He urged, before letting go, and turning to run into the depths of the forest.

 

* * *

 

Hours passed after that chanced meeting in the forest. Stiles lay in his bed, staring at the sliver of moonlight that lay across his bedding from a part in the curtains that shrouded him. He couldn’t help but worry, and wonder, if Derek made it out of the forest safely. If he was at home, in his own bed.

He wasn’t. 

Derek was sitting in front of the small hearth in his tiny cottage house on the outskirts of town, staring into the flames that filled his abode with a little bit of heat. Winter was right around the corner, he could feel it like only an animal could. His instincts to nest down with a mate and wait out the harsh weather to come was pressing. But louder still was the need to know if Stiles was safe. He needed to know. It was insanity, but he had to do something about it.

Half an hour passed, and Derek found himself at the base of the prince’s tower. The one that Stiles had once explained to him in such great detail, there was no possible way for him to have mistaken it. 

‘ _The one on the south corner. It has only three windows, but one of them is so large, I can see the entire kingdom from it, it feels like!’_  

Of _course_ it had to be to be a tower, Derek thought. He could see the big window three stories up. Granted, there was a small blessing of deep rooted vines latticed up the entire tower. They were sturdy, old, and thankfully held his weight as he slowly climbed up. It took some time, trying to stifle any noise in case he alerted the guard. Luck seemed to be on his side.

Finally reaching the tower windows, he peeked in, seeing a single candle lit at a desk, flickering, where Stiles sat up, writing quietly on a piece of thick parchment. Seeing his prince eased his worry almost instantly. But he didn’t come this far for a peek, only to turn and run. So after testing the window quietly, he slipped his knife from its sheath and edged it between the panes, lifting up the latch so that the wooden frames fell open. It was just big enough for him to hop in.

“What in the-!” Stiles yelped, falling backwards off his chair startled when he heard a rustle. His attention turned to the source behind him where he saw Derek standing in his room. Embarrassed, as he was hardly clothed, he stood, and shook himself off, before grabbing a robe off the back of his chair to wrap around himself.

“Should I be flattered or creeped out, that you’re paying me a late night visit in my room, three levels up from the ground?” He asked with a smirk, hugging himself as he watched the wolf, stepping a little closer. 

Derek hovered in silence, watching Stiles with regret on his face. At last, he slowly turned and stepped back to the window, kneeling against the sill.

“I shouldn’t have come... Good night, Prince.” He delivered. He didn’t get much further though. A soft touch on his wrist kept him rooted to the spot, and quietly, he turned back. Stiles' eyes were directed at the floor. He looked so young in the silvery light coming in from the open window. A chill breeze rushed in, and Derek stepped a half pace closer, free hand closing the glass panes for the moment. 

“I’m glad you did...” Stiles said quietly, self consciously as he carefully kept his eyes on the ground. Derek could feel so many things in that moment. His heartbeat, and breath, he could smell his anxiety.

The bond between them, after everything that had happened tonight... It was palpable. A simple connection like Stiles’ fingertips resting gently over Derek’s pulse point was like a grounding wire straight between them. They weren’t just touching. They were entwined in each other. 

Derek’s body turned slightly, as if orienting itself according to Stiles’. This young man... barely more than a boy, he was the very thing that held him to the Earth in that singular moment. Every breath he took in was a breath Stiles exhaled. There was nothing to stop them, now. The kingdom around them slept, but Stiles had never felt more awake. His hand shifted from Derek’s wrist, sliding down until his fingers laced between the warrior’s digits. Soft skin mixed with rough flesh.

Derek’s empty hand lifted, first resting on Stiles’ shoulder. Tentatively, his touch slid up along the slender column of the prince’s neck until his palm was flat against his flesh. The tips of his fingers curled around into the others disheveled hair while his thumb grazed the hollow of Stiles’ cheek. Such a tender touch gave Stiles the courage to lift his dark eyes, raking upwards over Derek’s form to his face in turn. They weren’t quite black, in the dimness of the room. Somehow they caught the glow of the candle that flickered just feet away, revealing a warmth that was only for Derek. A spice brown that spoke volumes to the wolf. Crying out to him, ‘ _home’_. Stiles was his.

Seconds ticked by as Derek shifted forward, closing the space between them. His hand holding fast to Stiles’ neck, even as they were chest to chest. Stiles exhaled, a shaking breath, from between parted lips. He was suddenly aware of just how dry they were, so his tongue darted out, sweeping across them before he reflexively swallowed.

Derek was such an imposing force even disarmed, to see him so vulnerable... so tangible, Stiles felt like this part of Derek was his alone. A side of the vicious warrior that he would not-- _Could not_ show any other living soul. It read in his eyes, a stormy grey in this moment, how nervous, but certain he was. Vulnerable. This was not Derek the Warrior Prince Black Wolf Knight. This was Derek, the man. Stiles’ fingers flexed, squeezing his hand encouragingly.

At last, the waiting was too much. Derek felt like the seconds that had passed in such tense silence had stripped him raw of everything, leaving only his need and desperation.

The last inch between them closed, flesh on flesh as Stiles pressed forward. His patience had run out before Derek’s could. The touch was tentative at first, a bare graze of lips that slowly grew. Pressure increasing, Derek’s head tilted minutely, as he lost the last shred of his inhibition. He and his wolf were finally tasting what was theirs. Stiles was the only word he could think, the flavor on his tongue, and the scent that made his head swim drunkenly. 

Stiles wasn’t any better. His knees felt weak, head light and dizzy as he reached up, fisting a hand into his Black Wolf’s tunic. He’d never been kissed before. For all his dreams of that moment, he could have never anticipated it being like this. Like a starving man at his last dinner. Like an arrow greeting it’s target. There was no rhyme or reason to the way their lips meshed together. The needing slide of skin as they explored this new connection was all that mattered.

At last, Derek released the kiss, taking in a shuddering inhale as his forehead easily came to rest against Stiles’. Derek’s eyes were closed, but Stiles’ were open, studying the blissful expression that smoothed the usually harsh plains of his warrior’s face. He looked so young in that moment... A moment that could go on forever but would never be enough.

A moment destined to end.

Derek leaned up and glanced to the window, his frown returned as he listened. The guards were starting their morning patrol of the castle grounds, and the black blanket of the night sky was beginning to turn cerulean.

“I have to go. If I don’t leave now, I could get caught. Prince..... Stiles.” Derek corrected, using the young man’s name for the first time. It made his lips tingle, and itch to say it again. A myriad of emotions crossed over Derek’s face, and the champion ducked in to kiss him again. Brief, or else he’d never leave those lips. 

“Come to the arena. I don’t care how you do it. I need you there. I can’t focus without your presence. You are my luck.” He urged, squeezing Stiles hand as he begged silently.

Hesitating for only a minute, Stiles nodded. “I’ll be there. You may not recognize me, I won’t be in the stands, but I will be there. I promise. If nothing else, you’ll see my face before the match.” He gave a smile that he hoped was reassuring. It must have worked, because the tiniest of grins pulled across Derek’s own mouth. A mouth that met Stiles’ one final time in a soft kiss, before the man’s large form disappeared out the window, back into the night.

Stiles knew he wouldn’t be sleeping at all. He was very much okay with that.

 

* * *

 

“Are you certain?” The king asked. His voice was heavy with desperation. Chris Argent of the Elite Templar Regime stood before him. A clever man, who was cunning as he was deadly. The best of the Order. He had been tasked with a specific duty. The king’s growing suspicion of his son’s involvement with the Black Wolf had come to a precipice. So he ordered Chris, who was at the Order’s head, to keep an eye on the prince.

Chris nodded, before taking a step closer to the king’s throne. Unsettling, his eyes rose to look upon his liege. They seemed to always be delivering justice. They had an innate ability to cow even the proudest of men.

“I saw them” he finally said. “Not but two hours ago. Deep in the forest outside of the kingdom.” It was meant to sound casual, only, that is not how this man’s voice worked. He vocalized it in a way that had it sounding absolute, if not to convey how completely revolting it was to him. That what he had seen was the most abominable thing imaginable.

The king let out a long and drained sigh. It was of no revelation he was at war with his own convictions. If one were to ask Johnathan Stilinski, father of Genim Stilinski his opinion on the matter. He would tell you that he only wishes to see his son untroubled. There was no doubt in his mind, despite the obtuse nature of his son, a father’s duty is to ensure their child a life of happiness. If that meant letting his son be with another man, then he would have no qualms.

However, Johnathan was no mere common folk. He was a king. A ruler of an entire people; of a kingdom. He had no luxury of fantasizing for a life where he could simply let his heart regulate. He envied his wife in that way. Her unfaltering confidence in what she felt was right, no matter the ramifications.

As it was, the bloodline demanded an heir and the king was too old to hope that he could produce one of his own. He had no desire to try, not with any woman but his wife. That was impossible now. It all rested on his son’s shoulders.

“What will you have me do, your Majesty?” Chris’ smooth and beguiling voice cut through the king’s thoughts.

“Do what must be done.” The king replied tiredly. The Templar bowed before trekking from the room. The king let himself be drawn into himself once more; feeling a guilt so crushing it threatened to choke him. His heart hurt for his son, but his duties were adamant. There would be no renouncing. That is why, when the room was empty of ears, he silently whispered unto himself:

“Forgive me...”


	5. Chapter 5

Just as he’d predicted, Stiles didn’t sleep at all that night. When the sun was hanging lazily in the sky, and he was starting to prepare for the day, it felt like he was dreaming, in a haze. Was this the dream? Or was the night prior a vision from his sleep? He couldn’t make head or tail of it and Stiles found that he didn’t really mind. He liked looking into the tarnished mirror on his wall and seeing the goofy grin on his lips, or having the palace servants and guards commenting on how well he looked that morning.  
  
Stiles barely remembered how he got from his room to the holding room behind the Crucible. There were vague memories of enlisting Scott’s help, who grudgingly went along with Stiles’ antics. He came to himself whilst peering around the corner into the familiar, large room filled with that day’s contestants. It was strangely reminiscent of the first time he was here. So filled with a boredom-induced curiosity; sneaking through the halls with Scott at his heels begging for them to turn back. Stiles still remembered with a crystal clarity of the first day he eavesdropped on a group of men that lead to his sitting beside the Black Wolf.  
  
Something had changed, though. Between that day, and this one, something internal had shifted. Before,his looking at Derek had filled Stiles’ heart with trepidation, and anxiety. When he’d look at the warrior’s face, and see a hard expression, a man minutes away from committing mass slaughter for a crowd’s entertainment. It had never occurred to him that Derek was a veritable death-dealer with enough blood on his hands to paint a house and all it’s rooms inside. Even now, as he considered the fact for the first time, it didn’t bother him as it should have.  
  
Derek looked different to him now. Stiles didn’t see the hard, deep-set crags in his face. The engraved frown lines from his consistent scowl were invisible. The cold cloak of violence and anger didn’t affect him anymore. Instead, he now saw a man, with a hidden glint of exhaustion behind his steel eyes. A man resolved to his fate, and the stench of certain death. It pained him, to see with educated eyes, what Derek hid so close to the surface. The pang deepened when the stoic man broke his concentration on his armor bindings to cast a sweeping glance around the holding room. Searching.  
  
 _‘He’s looking for me.’_ Stiles realized abruptly. He couldn’t linger back any more. Instead, he hurried forward and sat down quietly on the bench next to Derek. He was cloaked that day, crimson hood pulled over his head to obscure his visage. Anyone in the holding room who sat there every day would know it was the Prince. He was the only person who dared sit beside the Black Wolf.  
  
“Relax. I told you I’d be here.” Stiles urged softly, tilting his head into the light just enough that Derek would be able to make out the grin on his face.  
  
“You shouldn’t have.” Derek groused, looking around cautiously. “But I’m glad you have.” He whispered in addition when he was satisfied that they weren’t being watched.  
  
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world. You need your good luck, and everyone in the kingdom knows that I survive on pure luck alone.” Stiles joked lightly, trying to assuage Derek’s worries. The man barely stifled a grin and a chuckle. Stiles could see the smile in his eyes though, and in that moment he knew all of the risk was completely worth it. It was close to time though, and Derek wryly shifted, as if to stand.  
  
Stiles reached over and stopped him, with a hand on his shoulder. “Wait... Your handkerchief?” He asked curiously. He didn’t like the barely-there wince that afflicted the older male’s face for a split second.  
  
“In my last battle... It was torn. I...” Derek pulled out the fabric, holding it gingerly as if he’d only realized now how fragile it was. He’d very carefully sewn the two halves of fabric together again. A feat he had accomplished after pricking his fingers numerous times, and even letting out a few roars of frustration in the middle of the night.  
  
“I’m sorry. I didn’t take better care of it...” He apologized in a tone that was flat, but leaning towards woeful.  
  
Stiles smiled, though, and reached over, tucking the handkerchief back into Derek’s pocket.  
  
“Throw it out, silly knight.” He ordered, and fished into his own pocket, withdrawing a new kerchief. It was an exact replica of the one that he had given Derek so many weeks before. The one that had been stained and frayed in battle. This one was fresh, shining with it’s untainted, vibrant colors. Stiles tied it firmly in place, and patted his arm tenderly.  
  
“There. Now go win your battle. Good luck, Black Wolf. I’ll be rooting for you.” Derek couldn’t stop the tiniest of grins from pulling at his lips. A grin that was returned to him from the prince. Their eyes met and locked and in that small moment everything seemed to briefly fade away. The only thing Derek could focus on was Stiles. The sweet aroma of his skin. The uniquely erratic beating of his heart. The warm, honey-glazed amber of his eyes. He knew, in that private moment between them, that something indeed had changed. Something so intricate and complex, yet so gripping and alluring. Something uncontrollable and dangerous it had Derek’s heart hammering in his chest.  
  
Before he knew what he was doing, he inched closer to the prince. As if Stiles’ mere presence had caught him in a trance. He could feel the wolf inside him urging him forward. Begging to touch at their prince. The desire was almost too much to ignore. Derek knew why, he wasn’t oblivious to the tether that had slowly begun to solidify between them. Since that night in the woods, when Derek had caught Stiles. Caught his... _mate_. He could almost physically feel the bond like a tangible rope, tying them together.  
  
A part of Derek felt guilty. He had pulled Stiles into something so much bigger than the prince could possibly fathom. In Werewolf customs, mates are absolute. If the courtship were to ever be finalized, Stiles would be bound to Derek. He knew that wasn’t fair. He knew for certain that he should have never taken that damn kerchief, but looking into Stiles’ eyes, so warm and open for Derek. Feeling himself getting high off the prince’s invigorating scent. Thinking of how this boy, just barely a man, looked at him as though he was something special. Like Derek was worth being with; worth fighting for. He couldn’t bring himself to feel regret. For he felt an emotion farthest from that.  
  
Derek knew the sounds of horns were due to ring through the arena at any moment, but standing there, looking at Stiles as the prince kept his gaze firmly in place, he couldn’t help but want to fill the space between them. To feel or touch, he wasn’t quite sure. An inescapable desire to taste Stiles’ lips again stole his thoughts. The kiss from not so many hours before played through his mind clear as day and all of his instincts were clawing at him to take what he wanted, despite the spectators around them.  
  
Stiles shifted slightly, the movement caught instantly by Derek’s keen eyes. The prince crept slightly closer, as if he too wanted what Derek so desperately sought. Stiles gradually stunted, perhaps realizing that they were indeed not alone and the repercussions of being caught in that room were punishable enough. The deed of the prince kissing the Black Wolf would be condemnable. That didn’t stop Derek from still hungering for Stiles’ lips as he idly thought that there would be no one to utter what would transpire between them after he’d slaughtered them all in the Crucible.  
  
Derek felt his body beginning to move to breach the space between them when a sound halted his movement. It was a heartbeat, that was certain. The familiarity of it instantly filled him with a dark dread. He knew this pulse. He felt his body tense as his inner beast growled beneath his skin, his body instinctively crouching slightly as his eyes searched for the source.  
  
Even as he continued to survey their surroundings, Derek lifted his hand, and firmly gripped Stiles shoulder. “Go, now. It’s not safe for you to linger. I will win this battle for you.” He promised. Seeing the flicker of pain on Stiles' face when he was told to leave sent a sting of guilt through the Black Wolf. There was a look of protest on the prince's face, but it was quickly lost. Stiles slumped in silent disappointment as Derek forced himself to steel his expression. It was for the boy’s safety. Finally, Stiles nodded.  
  
“Win.” The prince said as they both rose from the bench. “I will be very upset with you if you do not come to my room again this night.” Stiles challenged sharply. He softened the delivery with a wink. A flourish of his cloak preceded Stiles’ exit, as he hurried from the holding area. A half of a breath left Derek’s flared nostrils, before he inhaled deeply again. Immediately, his eyes snapped up, and focused, hard, at the center of a dark, murky shadow. It was the alcove at the side of the holding area that tunneled off below the arena. The darkness was too thick for even Derek’s eyes to penetrate, try as he might. What he could do, was sense.  
  
His ears heard the steady thrum of a heartbeat. Unafflicted by adrenaline, he knew it belonged to one who was not participating in The Crucible that day. It was slow and even, just like the silent breaths he could hear the whisper of. Beyond that, a scent. Vaguely familiar, to a point that it itched the back of his nose. Derek couldn’t place it, though. It was unique. What he could feel, was eyes upon him. That unsettled him the most. A shiver tugged at his spine but his muscles locked, refusing to give in to the sign of weakness. Instead, he stared hard, in that direction, certain that he was looking straight at a person.  
  
Chris watched quietly, unafraid of the man-beast looking at him. He had no doubts that the Black Wolf knew he was there. If he wanted to call him out, he could. Chris knew that he wouldn’t though. It brought him no joy as he stared back, crystal gaze unfaltering in his disappointment. His reports to the King would be less than well received. Resolve filled him though. His duty was clear and he would do what he had to.  
  
Derek stood there a moment longer, even as he heard the horns blare. Without looking away from the spot, he bared his teeth in a restrained snarl, before jamming his helm onto his head, spinning the pole of his glaive in his hand before joining the men he’d soon be killing out to the Arena.

 

* * *

  

Derek had waited until nightfall and not a minute longer, before he snuck into the castle grounds. Nimble as ever, he scaled the tower wall, huffing a little by the time he climbed through the window. Of course, he’d checked to make sure Stiles was alone, before opening the glass panes with exaggerated difficulty. Swinging a leg into the room, Derek grunted, and pulled himself in, glaring at Stiles.  
  
“If you’re going to make me climb a giant tower to come see you, Prince, the least you could do is unlatch the window for me.” He complained irritably.  
  
Stiles grinned playfully, a mischievous upturn to his lips.  
  
“And miss you fumbling through my window like a fool? Not a chance.” Though the prince was already making his way to Derek with his silly grin still comfortably on his face. He stepped into the warrior’s space, suddenly unsure of himself. There was a trepidatious feeling in the air due to the almost intimate proximity between them. Stiles’ expression faltered. He made a movement as if to reach out, but stilled his arm, bringing it up to scratch behind his neck.  
  
“Your...match was...particularly...um...bloody? Today?” He tried, unsure of how to conduct himself. The mood shifted to something teetering on the edge of uncomfortable. Stiles was thinking of the kiss Derek and him shared, almost obsessively. Even now the lingering sensation of Derek’s lips on his own tingled his mouth. He wanted so badly to recreate the event but he was reluctant. Fear of crossing lines that he didn’t understand, nor discern. He wondered if Derek would let him? If he was allowed to touch the inveterate warrior. If perhaps Derek was also feeling the tempting desires the prince was fighting so desperately to disregard.  
  
Derek only replied curtly with a sharp nod. When the prince was met with no other reply or movement, he dropped his hand and sighed. It was undeniable, the tensity and discord that fit so tightly in the room, though neither of them knew how to ease it. After another few tense moments of silence, Derek cleared his throat.  
  
“Thank you... For coming to the arena. I know it was dangerous...” Oh how he knew, better than Stiles did, just how close it had been.  
  
“It was nothing, really. Sneaking into places I shouldn’t be is a sport, to me, and very much worth it if it keeps you alive for another day.” Stiles responded flippantly, waving his hand into the air. Hands that were so eager to be close to Derek’s body.  
  
Derek instinctively jerked, hand clamping down on the other’s when it came too close to him, too suddenly. As quickly as he’d squeezed down, his muscles relaxed and he found himself holding Stiles’ hand in the air. They both seemed to hold their breath for a moment, until Derek forced his shoulders to un-tense minutely. He pulled Stiles' hand gently to rest against his chest.  
  
“Regardless of how easy it was, it still means much to me.” He pointed out firmly, frowning. Stiles was fighting to keep his heart from pounding it’s way up out of his throat, evident by the way his adam's-apple bobbed in his throat. Licking his lips, he nodded. Gently, Stiles pulled Derek over to his neatly arranged bed, urging him to sit before sinking down next to him on the downy cushion.  
  
“It really was a good match today. Quick, though. It seemed almost like you were in a hurry. Any reason?” Derek could tell Stiles was trying to make conversation, but it wasn’t necessarily a topic he wanted to broach in depth. He shrugged a shoulder upwards.  
  
“I wasn’t in the mood to draw it out for a good show.” He surmised finally, glancing over through his thick lashes. His body was slightly slumped where he sat, as if the weight on his shoulders was far heavier than any plate armor he could wear. Honestly, Derek had wanted to end the fight and leave the arena because he had been spooked by the mysterious presence from the shadows.  
  
“Look... Stiles... I know I asked you to come to the Arena, but I’m not sure it’s such a good idea, now.”  
  
“No.” Stiles replied abruptly, but calmly. His tone gentle, yet final enough to take Derek aback.  
  
“What?”  
  
“No. I’m not going to stay away from the Crucible. It’s hell trying to keep away from you, and if I had to wait until nightfall to see if you survived the day.... I’d die, okay? So, no. I won’t stop. Don’t even try to convince me further, Black Wolf. My mind is made.” Stiles looked haughty, but beneath that, there was true concern. Derek drowned in that subtle expression for a long moment, until he slowly pressed his hand against Stiles’ chin. Stiles turned tentatively, eyes instantly finding Derek’s. The warrior caressed the prince’s lips with his thumb, a fluid touch that elicited a shaky breath from Stiles. His gaze skimmed the supple, pale flesh in front of him, eyes raking over the prince’s lips, finally locking with warm, amber iris. Slowly, he pulled Stiles’ chin forward with delicate fingers, grazing Stiles’ mouth with his own in a kiss completely different from the first they’d shared.  
  
This one was a silent ‘thank you’.

* * *

  
Another day, another fight. An easy one, in Derek’s opinion. When he’d left the arena, he was already onto other matters in his mind. He was barely even bloodied, from the scant number of warriors who had come to challenge him that day. Instead, his focus was upon the prince. Their visit had been short, but tense, after the physical meeting they’d had the night before. Standing beside each other in the holding room, and speaking, it had been difficult restraining the desire to touch. Their farewell was standard and bland, leaving them both more eager to call the day over and hasten to their evening meet.

 

* * *

 

Inhaling gently, Derek stared up at the canopy over his prince’s bed. Another day passed, and it felt like tonight, their presence together was easier. _Natural_. It was natural the way Stiles' cheek pressed against his chest. His voice was soft, jaw vibrating against Derek’s muscles in a pleasant way that could easily soothe him to sleep. Had he ever felt so tired before? In the back of his mind, Derek could hear his own inner voice berating him for how foolish he was, letting his guard down. Yet a louder voice told him it was okay. That nothing could go wrong here. Stiles was his haven now, not the Arena.  
  
Stiles licked his lips. He could still taste Derek on them from their recent lip-lock. The man had a sinful mouth that was more addicting than anything he’d tasted before.  
  
Yet, in the midst of all their heated kissing, Derek had stopped them, much to Stiles' confusion. Now, they were cooling off. A few times, Derek had pointedly redirected Stiles' wandering hands to more decent areas of his body. When at last, Stiles whined and pouted up at him, Derek sighed and sent him a quiet, but intense look.  
  
“I know you’re eager Prince-- and wanting. But I don’t think it’s wise to take this... relationship to that level.” He explained quietly.  
  
Stiles was torn between wanting to protest, and rejoice. _A relationship!_ From Derek’s own mouth, they were in a _relationship!_ That was enough to placate him for the time being. “Okay.” He agreed with a small grin, scooting up to him to press a chaste kiss to the corner of his lips.  
  
“How about you tell me of your weapon? That giant stick with the thing at the end.” He proposed instead, getting comfortable on Derek’s chest.

 

* * *

  
  
Stiles was pacing the room, this night, when Derek finally came in through the window. Before either of them could speak, Stiles stormed up to Derek and pulled his shirt up, swatting the warriors hands away from stopping him. Finally, he had the man’s chest bare. It was... just that. Bare. No cut, bruises, nothing, but a dusting of dark, black hair.  
  
“Hello to you too.” Derek said after a long silence.  
  
“I swear I saw that axe cleave open your breast plate. He had to yank on it three times to pull it free!” Stiles exclaimed, borderline furious. “I thought you were mortally wounded. I almost ran out onto the field, until I saw you start fighting again!” He was obviously scolding Derek, in a mix of confusion, anger, and fear.  
  
Derek swallowed discreetly. He didn’t think Stiles had stayed to watch...  
  
“It didn’t get my skin. I was lucky, really. There’s a chain mail layer between the armor plates and my chest, and between that, leather, so it got stuck in the material. I’m fine.” He assured firmly. Stiles stared at him incredulously for many moments, frowning.  
  
It was a story that was easy to believe, though, so he sighed quietly in relief, finally, and rested a hand on Derek’s chest.  
  
“I was so scared.” He murmured, looking pained as he stared at the unblemished flesh. Derek wanted to tell him in that moment, so badly, that he had no reason to fear for him. That he had the ability to heal in just moments. He wanted to quell the prince’s worries once and for all, if not to relinquish the crushing guilt of his continued secrecy. He couldn’t though, out of anxiety that he’d scare him away, so instead he rested his hand over Stiles’ own.  
  
“Don’t fear for me, Stiles. If I could die, it would have happened long before now. Whatever God there is, they will not allow me to be free of this life.” He moved the prince’s hand, pushing his shirt back down so that he could pull Stiles in to a mind-clearing kiss. He could hear a halfhearted sound of protest in Stiles throat, but it faded in due time. Sitting down on the window ledge, Derek rested his hands on Stiles’ waist. The prince leaned over him, as he was still standing, arms folded around Derek’s shoulders to lavish himself into the the man’s mouth.  
  
Leaning just a little too far back, Derek felt his balance shift uncomfortably, his hands latching onto the window frame. It was the sign he needed to stop the kiss and get them back under control.  
  
“Satisfied?” Derek asked smartly, earning himself a glare from Stiles.  
  
“You know I’m not.” That made him feel just a little bad. He wanted more, yes. They both did, but Derek wasn’t ready to tell Stiles about all the things that made it so hard for him to cross that bridge in their incredibly dangerous relationship. That if he ever fell into bed with the prince, it would seal Stiles’ fate, tying him into the bond forever. Derek gave Stiles a suffering expression, begging him to not press the issue further tonight.  
  
Exhaling tiredly, Stiles nodded, and shifted away from Derek to lean against the other side of the window, staring out at the sky. Derek moved, to stand, watching the prince. Stiles’ gaze was fixed on the sky, and after a moment, a smile pulled across his face.  
  
“Did you ever hear the story about the Libra and Virgo?” He asked, pointing up to the constellations above them. Derek shook his head, but Stiles didn’t look. He was already deep into his story, telling Derek all about the Lady Virgo’s scales, and how their balance was used to bring order to the chaos of the 7th House. After a while, Derek slipped behind Stiles, looping his arms gently around his waist to hold them back-to-chest.  
  
“How do you know all of this? I never really paid attention to the stars before.” He asked gently.  
  
Stiles' face drew up a sad smile, a moment of silence reigning between them as the prince relaxed back into Derek’s chest.  
  
“Mmm... My mother loved the stars. She used to say, 'Stiles, never forget to count the stars when you feel lost, because each one is a memory, waiting for you to remember them.’ So, I tried to look at them every night, and see if I can still remember her." Derek was struck by the beautiful sentiment, glancing up at the sky for a long time.  
  
“Do you see that big one? There?” He asked, pointing straight up in the sky. Stiles looked confused as he followed his direction.  
  
“Well... yes, Derek, that’s not a star, that’s the moon.” He pointed out in a slow, careful tone. As if he were speaking to the village idiot.  
  
“I know what it is.” Derek huffed for a single sour moment, before he relaxed again. “That one is the the memory of when we first met.” He whispered, lips pressed against the other’s ear; curving against the rapidly warming flesh. Derek didn’t need to see Stiles to know that his face was bright red.  
  
“I... You... Derek...” Stiles whined, before wriggling around and burying his face to hide it in the warrior’s broad throat. “You perfect, romantic, beautiful jerk,” he whined, “I don’t think I like you at all. You do such mean things to me.”  
  
“Oh, you like me plenty, Prince.” Derek mumbled with a grin, eyes lidded as he rubbed his hands up and down Stiles back. “You love the way I make your heart race, and your cheeks blossom with color.”  
  
“Nope. Not even a little bit.” He replied stubbornly, shaking his head in a stunted motion, though Derek could so clearly hear the lie.  
  
"Really? Well I suppose I could leave, then, if my presence is so troubling....” Derek started to pull away a little. To his surprise, Stiles growled and held on tight.  
  
"Don't you even dare think about leaving before the prince has dismissed you.” With that, Stiles dragged his warrior down into another kiss, fevered with the desperate need to touch and blend into one being.

 

* * *

  
  
The following days preceded in ritual. Stiles would sneak into the holding room behind the Crucible, just as he did every day. Though the prince was ever vigilant in his task to sit beside the Black Wolf, it never failed that he would be there. Nor would he neglect the act of tying the kerchief to his warrior’s arm. As always, Stiles was ever-animate in his banter on random topics, though he would never fail to utter the intimately familiar words once the horns bellowed.  
  
“I wish you luck, Black Wolf. I’ll be rooting for you.”  
  
Though this day was different. As they stood facing one another, Derek staring at Stiles who was donning a goofy grin, he couldn’t help but remember a time when the prince had so foolishly sat beside him only a month before. How persistent and ridiculous this young boy was, and how so easily he slipped passed the defenses the warrior had so meticulously set in place around his heart. He remembered how he looked at the prince with a certain degree of annoyance if not laced with an unfair amount of endearment. Only now, when he stared at Stiles, who was carelessly risking his life for a forbidden converge driven by his own obstinance, Derek saw something he hadn’t wanted to admit to himself. That he had been seeking something so desperately which only Stiles seemed to be able to give him. That was why, despite his better judgement, he acted impulsively.  
  
He reached out, and fisted the scarlet material that hung freely behind the prince’s body, pulling the boy into his space. He knew the others were watching, the sudden spike of apprehension that permeated heavy in the air confirmed it. It sent a sudden thrill of excitement through him. That there were so many eyes on them in that moment. That every last one of them, despite their ensured fates, would witness what he was about to do. Fleetingly, Derek thought that perhaps they were under the ruse that he was about to brutalize a threat. Only, his true intentions couldn’t have been further from that.  
  
Bracing himself, Stiles’ hands laid flat onto the Black Wolf’s cold, dark armor. His head quickly turned about him as he felt Derek’s arms curve around his hips. The prince saw the scandalized looks on the surrounding contestant’s faces. Instantly, fear gripped at his insides; thoughts of being caught played through his mind like a wretched promise. Only, when Derek’s fingers dug into his flesh, he felt his face flush hot. The position Derek had put them in was undeniably intimate, and although his visage was still hidden behind the crimson cloak’s hood, it was all but obvious that the only company that the fearsome, Black Wolf would allow is the prince’s.  
  
There was a protest on Stiles’ lips, who turned to face Derek, but a rough, gloved hand slipped between the red fabric and the prince’s check, slithering back to cradle his head. As quickly he felt the man’s digits grab onto his hair, he was immediately assaulted by Derek’s lips on his own. It was the filthiest, most rousing kiss the prince could have only dared to fantasize about. Stiles was helpless to the onslaught, and though his mind was screaming in warning, it was quickly numbed by the sensation of Derek’s tongue sliding against his own.  
  
A part of him knew he should be pushing away, but the majority of his brain was so consumed by an insatiable need that only Derek could quench.  
  
And quench he did.  
  
Derek’s masterful tongue swarmed the prince’s mouth, gliding across his lips which parted almost instantly. Stiles had all but become a puddle, helpless against the warrior’s dominating fervor. With the flick of his tongue, Derek traced the prince’s teeth, trailing off to lick deeper into the cavern of Stiles’ mouth. The prince could not stifle the whimpering moans that were escaping him; little salacious sounds that Derek devoured like a hungry beast. The prince reciprocated with a ravenous enthusiasm, doing his best to mimic Derek’s sinfully skilled mouth. He shuddered when their tongues mingled and slid across each other, only for the warrior to tilt ever-so-slightly so he could bite down on the prince’s bottom lip; to release his teeth and suck the fleshy brim of it into his mouth.  
  
In his mind, Derek knew how childish he was being, that the true reason he was being so bold, was to flaunt his claim on Stiles. Even then, the bond was so demanding, having solidified through their conjoined affections. It was exhausting to reel in his instincts. His wolf clawed within him, begging to rub his scent all over Stiles’ body until he smelt of nothing but Derek. But the cognitive side, the human side, knew how misconstrued those acts would be. The prince didn’t understand his needs --as a Werewolf-- to scent and mark its mate; to claim and protect. Although those desires were fastly becoming a prevalent, unavoidable need, he allowed himself this. The blatant claim of the prince, despite the deadly ramifications.  
  
Slowly Derek pulled from Stiles’ lips, his tongue leaving a teasing lick on the prince’s mouth. Stiles could only stand there, dazed from the sheer intensity of what he had just experienced. He was only half aware of the devious grin on the Black Wolf’s face. He sputtered, trying to voice some sort of indignation, but his mouth felt numb and his legs were on the verge of collapse. Derek only slid his fingers from Stiles’ hair, tracing them delicately along his jaw until he patted the prince on his cheek playfully.  
  
Dumbstruck, Stiles swatted at the warrior’s hand and tried to look offended until finally finding his voice.  
  
“Did you-- Why did-- _What in God’s name, Derek?_ ” The prince, clearly still flustered, could only stare while the Black Wolf smirked and shoved his helmet on; grabbing his weapon and leaving for the Crucible without another word.  
  
The prince’s eyes followed him in bittersweet disbelief before remembering the last lingering contestants still making their way out to the arena. He cleared his throat, and pulled at the hood of his cloak to ensure it was still concealing his face before turning on his heel and fleeing the room. All the while grumbling under his breath about egotistical and presumptuous warriors kissing princes without their permission.

 

* * *

  
  
Derek had only just staggered upright over his fallen enemy, leaning tiredly against his glaive when the King stood above them all. The horns blared, almost sounding as bored with Derek’s predictable victory as the people looked.  
  
“It is my great pleasure to announce to you denizens this fine day, that the time of year has finally come! We will be convening, next week, for our Gauntlet! The best warriors on the continent are traveling here as we speak, to fight in a tournament unlike any other you have seen before! Only the strongest men will gather, and we will finally name a man above all other men, besides myself, and the Lord God. Our Champion! Will it be our ruthless, unbeaten Black Wolf?! Or will his winning streak finally end?” Derek stared up at the King, who gazed down at him, Chris at his side.  
  
Had he just heard the public deliverance of his death warrant?


	6. Chapter 6

Stiles sat amongst the thickness of the spectators, silently cheering for the Black Wolf’s victory as he remained hidden. He’d always viewed, before, from the royal’s seating. Yet here amongst the people he found himself wondering why the citizens came day after day to watch Derek slaughter men. He didn’t understand it, but then, The Crucible was the only source of entertainment in the town, away from their hard work and families. The city had never had a large artists society, and there were very few plays, or opera’s, save for holidays. Even if the outcome of the matches were well known, the Crucible was an escape. A few hours a week where they could relax without the worries of work or children. Despite Stiles’ invariable disdain for the arena, and the disappointment of the people around him at the impending victory, he would always pray for Derek’s safe battle. However, on this day, as the Black Wolf walked from his final slain adversary, the king stepped from his chair and addressed the people. 

Still cloaked, Stiles felt his stomach fall; the breath stolen from his lungs. His hand came to clench at his chest, feeling a heaviness there as the reality of the Gauntlet settled in. He was surprised, to say the least. The Gauntlet hadn’t been integrated into the Crucibles customs for nearly a decade. To have his father bring back the barbaric tournament left Stiles feeling baffled.

The irrefutable fear that clenched at his gut was for Derek’s safety, for good reason. The Gauntlet’s procedures were relatively straightforward. Much like the Crucible’s original intent, it beckoned the warriors from every corner of the land. Twenty warriors that were considered the most deadly and fearsome of their kingdoms. Through a series of rounds stretching over the span of a week, each contestant was set against each other in single duels. Ten battles took place during the first of the week while the second pit the remaining contestants against each other in five final, grueling duels.

Just as in the Crucible, there would be only one victor, and taking into consideration that over the span of the year, Derek had refused the award money of his own victories, the accumulated gold was put up to entice even the most reserved warriors to fight for the promise of such an abundant lot.

Though Stiles had only been a young child at the time, the horrors of the last Gauntlet were still mentioned by many in the kingdom. Tales of the great and terrifying Arthas the Skinner and his unprecedented prowess teetered on the edge of legend, and the very mention of him never failed to strike fear in the hearts of those who had watched him fight.

Which is why, the constriction of the prince’s chest clenched further, stealing the breath from his lungs and crushed his body from the inside out. His mind was under siege; thoughts of Derek being felled by a warrior of Arthas’ calibre, it left him feeling barren and raw. It couldn’t have lasted but only a few meager seconds, but to Stiles, it felt like being trapped within the thought of Derek’s death for nearly a millennia. His brain was throbbing, the sound of his blood pumping through his veins was a thunderous roar in his ears that grated his every nerve. Stiles’ head felt heavy, yet airy and so utterly hot; it was then that he remembered he needed to breathe. He attempted to suck in air, but his lungs only compressed further, denying the much needed oxygen his body was frantically begging for. That was when a dreadful hysteria took hold of him. He could not satiate his need for air. His body would not stop shaking with anxiety even as he attempted to curl his hands into his cloak, induced by an overwhelming fear that he could not dispel. Sweat formed on his skin while his mouth went as dry as sand. 

Try as he might, his body would not obey any of his commands, for the heart-wrenching scenario of Derek’s demise still plagued his every thought. His hands tightened their grip on his covering in an attempt to ground himself, frantically seeking control. Yet as every second ticked by, he felt his body become sluggish and weak; his vision hazy and obscured. A darkness beckoned to him with the sweet promise of release from the tortuous nightmare threatening to claim his soul.

Just when his eyelids were feeling too heavy, something changed. His skin prickled with a faint, comforting sensation. A wave of calm blanketed him.  There was a serene familiarity from it, like being wrapped in strong, protective arms. The unbearable pressure of his chest eased slightly, allowing him to regain control of his starved lungs. He breathed in deep, hungrily sucking down much needed air. Stiles’ eyes instantly fell unto the arena and his gaze locked quickly with the Black Wolf’s. Derek’s piercing eyes bore into him, so easily relaying what could only be concern.

Derek had sensed the agonizing panic that had taken the prince the instant it happened. The hammering sound of Stiles’ frantic heart clenched at his gut and stole his attention. Even if he didn’t have his werewolf hearing, the bond they now share easily alerted him to the prince’s extreme distress. He wanted so badly to rush to his mates side. To comfort and assure. To nuzzle into his skin in hope of chasing away Stiles’ pains, but he couldn’t. The stands were filled with spectators, and the most unfaltering was the king’s glare and the Templar at his side. So he did the only thing he could think of and resorted to the bond.

Slowly, he let his mind fill with thoughts of Stiles. Of the many nights they’ve spent together wrapped in each other’s embrace. The memories of holding his prince gently in his arms, peppering his face and neck in chaste kisses. Kisses that always led him to Stiles’ irresistible lips. He let the emotions those memories roused within him, of home and safety and happiness, flow through their bond. Hoping that he could convey just a fraction of how much Stiles meant to him.

Derek watched as the prince took in a long, leisurely breath. Listened and focused as Stiles’ heart rate declined closer to its natural, lulling rhythm. The prince turned, eyes curious and bewildered, supplying a slight nod accompanied by a smile. A small, private smile that Derek knew was just for him. The sight of it never ceased to hitch his breath. He hardened his slightly softened expression, knowing that all eyes were still on him. 

At last, he turned his gaze back to the king, his shoulders drawing back to hold his posture firm, and proud. His mouth set in a flat, unimpressed line.

“Let them come. I will fight, and kill, every man you put before me.” He declared harshly, tone bordering on contempt. The sound of it carried in the acoustics of the arena, over the din of people talking. Their sounds silenced into a fearsome emptiness. The king stared at the warrior in disbelief and inhaled sharply, giving a curt nod. He accepted the challenge. Derek gripped his weapon tight, and turning sharply, he walked from the Crucible.

He would be visiting his prince tonight. Only this time, instead of Stiles bombarding him with increasingly suspicious questions, he would be the one demanding answers. The prince’s distressing behavior would weigh heavy on his mind until he could finally feel Stiles in his arms. To pass the time, he conceded to a well-needed run in the Forbidden Wood.

* * *

 

Derek lifted himself up the side of the prince’s tower impatiently. He’d spent most of his day worried sick, wondering what had happened to Stiles during the day’s match. When he reached the top, the windows were open in wait. Stiles was sitting on the edge of his bed, looking sheepish as he waited; eyes fixated on the ledge so that he could see the exact moment when his knight’s hands, and then his head, would come into view. Derek grunted as he hauled himself over the edge, and inside the room. He didn’t take a moment for reprieve. His feet hit the solid wood of the floor, and crossed to his prince in a few steps. Stiles stood, in a voiceless understanding, just in time to sink into Derek’s enveloping arms.

Derek wanted to ask. So many questions flooded his mind, and died on his tongue before they could come to life on his lips.  

_What happened? Are you okay? What can I do to make that never happen again?_

He couldn’t speak any of them. If he did, he might say too much. He couldn’t tell Stiles about the bond yet. He couldn’t admit to him what exactly what he was. 

A Werewolf. Monster. Abomination of God...

Stiles spoke first, though. 

“I don’t know what happened...” He whispered, answering the first of the unspoken questions into Derek’s shoulder. His voice was muffled, but the older man could understand well enough. It didn’t ease him at all. Instead, his heart got comfortable where it was, lodged in his throat.

“After I heard Father announce... The Gauntlet... I don’t know. I just... I just lost it. I kept thinking about you dying and all of these horrible things happening to you, things I couldn’t stop and it overwhelmed me! I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t see, all I could do was think... about you... covered in your own blood...” Derek sensed Stiles anxiety rising in him again, and quietly, he made an instinctive soothing sound in his throat. He smoothed his hand up and down the length of Stiles’ slender back, letting his instincts guide him in that moment. He and his Wolf were in agreement. Stiles should never smell like this. Like fear and the rich metallic tang of anxiety. It was an unnerving scent that made Derek’s hair prickle and stand on end.

“I’m here...” Derek murmured when he at last found his voice. “I’m not... going anywhere, Prince. Not by my own two feet, and not by another’s blade.” Stiles shuddered as if those words alone were the key to calming him. He needed to hear them. To know that his knight was safe. Some might find it foolish that he could throw everything to the wind at a few whispered words from this one single man, but he could. Even if the dread he felt about the coming days hung over him like a low-lying, black storm cloud... Rumbling slowly as the mass of it roiled in waiting chaos...

Stiles pulled back, feeling Derek’s arms tighten around him minutely. His own hands slid up to press firmly against Derek’s chest. He was not pushing away, though. No, his fingers desperately clawed into the dark fabric separating his fingertips from flesh, and easily their gazes locked. There was no hesitation as their lips met. Slow and tender at first, it morphed steadily into something desperate and voracious. It was a need for Stiles, to taste that Derek was okay. That he was safe, and strong.

Derek returned the kiss, his Wolf inside keening for Stiles. It had become more and more difficult to push back his desire to mate and claim the prince. Internally, it was a battle with himself to pull away and come up with another excuse as to why they should take things slow. However, a voice inside of him that was growing louder and louder was one that screamed at him, howled for him to, _take! Take! TAKE!_

When the kiss became something filthy, and needy, Derek felt Stiles’ hand’s shifting lower down his chest, hesitating above his waistband. Derek’s abdominal muscles clenched tight, and he waited. Hoping that Stiles would keep his hands in place. It was foolish to hope. Of course the prince’s hand dropped down further, sliding gently over his most private spot. Cupping him. Stiles shuddered at the heat he felt pressing against his hand. Derek took in a deep breath, growling with raw _want_.

The sound of it did something to Stiles. He shivered and the smell of his arousal spiked. For Derek, it was like a drug. Sweet, savory, mouth-watering. It made him realize just how thin the thread of his self control had become since he’d met Stiles. His core was hot, a pit of lava boiling with desire. Stiles wasn’t much better. He was touching him. Derek’s length... his _member_. 

Derek knew that he should try to pull away. That he needed to stop this before it became too much, but he couldn’t move. Derek felt as though if he shifted even an inch, he’d be moving towards Stiles’ bed, with the way Stiles’ fingers traced the straining outline of his cock through his breeches. Those tender touches were feather light but deliberate in the way they explored. His breaths were slow and baited, as tense as his muscles. If he didn’t keep himself under control, there was no telling how far he’d go. The beast inside of him wanted control.

Stiles, whose heated kiss practically had Derek helpless as though he were under a spell, pulled him towards the very piece of furniture he’d been wanting to avoid. Falling back onto his own bed, Stiles pulled Derek down on top of him. Derek’s elbows braced his body on the mattress over Stiles to keep from crushing him. What it did do, was press their lower halves together, flush and intimate. Derek shifted, but didn’t pull off of Stiles. 

“I want you. Derek, _please_...” Stiles begged, lips grazing over Derek’s. Those words tortured and chipped away at Derek’s resolve even further. There was no denying how much he wanted this. How much they both wanted it. Derek was finding it harder and harder to make excuses why he shouldn’t give in and take what they both so desperately desired. Stiles broke away and shifted up onto the bed, squirming higher and higher until he was resting against the pillows.This time, his legs spread open and Derek exhaled roughly at the sight. He crawled onto the bed and closer to Stiles, shifting in between the prince’s thighs. It was a conscious effort to keep his eyes from flaring as his predatory instincts throbbed inside of him. His dominance demanded obedience, and he was fighting it, to keep this slow and controlled. Even as Stiles plucked at the lacings holding his shirt closed, he felt the urge to overcome the young man and cover him with bites and bruises. Claiming marks of a rough loving, that would act as a beacon, a marking for all who looked at him to know that Stiles belonged to someone. 

Dereks gums ached; his fangs begged to elongate and his mind was flooded with warnings. His human side taking iron reign of his beast once more. Stiles had his own desires though, and they permeated the air in a heady musk of sex and want. It was so strong that Derek’s head swam dizzily. He was way over his head with this and he needed to stop it. Stiles noticed the growing clarity in Derek’s eyes and reached down to brush his hand over the man’s cheek, guiding him forward for a kiss that spoke more than words could. It was different from the touch of lips and tongue they’d traded just moments before. This one was absent of desire and heat. It was not salacious or wanting. It was something else entirely, a thing that tugged at Dereks heartstrings, and fed the bond, rather than provoke it.

“ _I need you..._ ” Stiles said breathlessly, and Derek knew immediately that he couldn’t say no. As much as he thought he needed to deny. He sunk his head down to taste the newly exposed flesh of Stiles decollete. His tongue bathed over the slender male’s prominent clavicle, and blunt human teeth grazed over flesh. Stiles’ voice surprised him, when he reacted enthusiastically to the teases. He keened out loud, softly moaning and shivering. It was the very definition of erotic. Those shuddering moans and the high, needy whimpers... Long gasping groans. They fueled his burning desires for the prince. 

Stiles’ wandering hands made their way down Derek’s body again. His right hand found its way back to Derek’s groin, massaging his erection. He was obviously pleased to see that his arousal hadn’t flagged at all in the time that had passed. Grinning a little, Stiles’ other hand fisted into the shoulder of Derek’s shirt. Derek growled and thrust himself into Stiles hand. He tried his hardest to not snarl out loud, but he had doubts he could muster enough control to stifle it. The sensation of it burst through them both, Stiles responding in a loud moan of excitement, obscene with his pleasure from the vibration of his warrior’s mouth licking at his throat. Stiles squeezed him again, and Derek squirmed as the pulses of electric heat worked it’s way through his every nerve.

The explorative groping evolved, slowly, into frantic grinding. Stiles’ hand shifted away, and Derek’s stiff length was pressed right against the prince’s own arousal. Their hips thrusting in a slow rhythm. None of it deterred Derek’s mouth from what it was doing to his chest. He’d pulled more of that fabric out of the way, licking up the boy’s neck to feel Stiles’ lifeblood pulsing against his tongue. Knowing that the prince’s crimson essence flowed just beneath the smooth flesh under his teeth sated something primal within him. Even more, feeling the way Stiles' pulse quickened as he offered more of his neck so freely, trusting him so irrefutably, excited the beast within.

Derek's wolf had never been louder than in this moment. Not even when he stood over an opponent, about to strike the last blow. It roared at him, begging to flip Stiles over. To rip through the fabric of his clothes with his claws. To raise Stiles’ hips and thrust into him over and over, relentlessly until the prince was shaking and begging; writhing and wrecked, and completely breeded. He tore at his own self control to pound into the boy deep, and coat Stiles’ inner walls with his potent seed. So that Derek’s scent would mingle with Stiles’ forever after this day. Stiles’ sweat and skin would smell of his claim. Anyone who could smell those subtle, hidden scents, would know undoubtedly just who Stiles belonged to.

Suddenly, he felt the heat of power. His eyes were glowing. The sting of his teeth extending, stretching his gums, and the piercing pain of his claws growing. Panic was the very next sensation to race through him. The realization that he’d let things get too far out of hand hit him like a rock. He’d lost control. Reeling back, Derek forced himself off of Stiles, gasping as he spun and scrambled for the window. He had to get away before Stiles saw him. Saw everything he was, and realized he was a monster. Before he could swing out over the window ledge, there was a hand gripping his wrist. Fingers wrapped around his skin gently, but the smooth touch of it was enough to make him pause. Stiles’ flesh on his...

“Wait.... Derek.... Where are you going? I don’t... I-I don’t understand.” Stiles asked quickly. His voice was thick. There was that stench of anxiety again. Derek tensed, but didn’t turn to him. His fists balled up to hide his claws and his eyes slammed shut to obscure their icy blue glow. He hated himself for making Stiles feel like this, to know that his sudden scurry had brought upon insecurities. The prince had tried to look over Derek’s shoulder, catching a glimpse of his eyes before his lids closed, but he wrote it off as a trick of the moonlight.

“Let me go, Stiles.” Derek said in a dark, gritty voice. His sound more animal than human. It was the wolf underneath his skin, taking over his body. Stiles’ grip on his wrist tightened. Defiant as ever, he was demanding an answer.

“Do you... not want me? Is it because I’m a male?” He sounded guarded, and unsure as he asked. Derek’s heart flinched, as if he’d been physically struck by the insinuation. The way he voiced it was painful. Sad, and betrayed. The scent of arousal was all but stripped clean now, covered by the odor of sorrow and grief. It was enough to pull Derek from his sexed frenzy. It was like a cold bucket of water pouring over him. His posture disintegrated, shoulders drooping as he realized how this must seem to Stiles. Of course he’d think that Derek didn’t want him, judging by his actions. Derek had been deflecting his advance for weeks now. It wasn’t unreasonable for him to come to this assumption. It was natural to presume that a man would be uncomfortable with the idea of being sexual with another person of his own gender. After all, before he’d met the prince, Derek had never thought of another man in a sexual way.

Derek opened his eyes and relaxed his fists. The wolf receded back into the confines of his soul. At last, he turned to Stiles, looking slightly exhausted, and guilty. Stiles’ eyes were pleading as his grip on Derek’s wrist faltered. Without thinking, Derek turned and wrapped his arms around Stiles. The prince tensed, unsure for a moment before he relaxed into the embrace.

“Tell me... Please just tell me what’s wrong with me? Am I not to your liking?” Stiles pressed, wanting to know. Derek huffed out a short laugh. Just the mere implication that Stiles didn’t excite him was laughable. If only he knew the pains Derek battled and suffered by the minute to keep from claiming him.

“I want you to listen to me very carefully. You are perfect, Stiles. Don’t ever think that I see you as anything less than that. If only you knew just how much I want you.” Derek explained slowly. “But I worry. You are so young... and I fear I will hurt you. I want you to be sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, when it happens. I want it to be special for you. Not some... irrational, heated spurr of the moment.” Stiles gave a rough sigh. He didn’t say the things that he wanted to, argument heavy on his tongue, though he stilled it. It was clearly evident he wasn’t completely satisfied, thought he would not pressure his knight.

“I understand...” He lied. Derek knew that Stiles was disappointed, but he would suffer the guilt of it. He believed it was better than trapping Stiles in a bond he had no knowledge of, or agreement in. Derek’s hand moved up, nudging Stiles' chin gently to meet him in a new, tender kiss. 

“I should go.” Derek said at last, sighing. Stiles steeled his grip preemptively, when he felt the man’s warm breath on his face.

“Please. Stay with me? Just until I fall asleep. Please?” He asked, eyes full of hope as he looked up at his knight.  Only a fool would bet that Derek could say no to Stiles. He nodded and watched as the prince broke out into a familiar silly smile, pulling them back towards the bed. Stiles stripped off his shirt, exposing his lithe torso. Licking his lips, Derek didn’t bother to try and hold back the smug grin that pulled over his lips when he saw the marks that began to bruise on the prince’s milky skin. They were just as beautiful as Derek had imagined they would be, so many times in the dead of night. 

Situated on the bed together, Derek wrapped his arm around Stiles’ waist to fit his back against his chest. A perfect fit, as Derek nestled his nose against Stiles’ neck. A deep breath, followed by another, he forgot for just a moment that scenting and sniffing was an odd behavior in humans. Stiles chuckled, wriggling a bit at the slight tickle.

“Did you … Did you really just smell me, Black Wolf?” He asked teasingly. Derek grunted, exhaling another hot puff of air onto the back of Stiles’ neck. His teeth nipped at Stiles’ ear in a playful gesture. 

“And if I did? What will you do, prince?” He retorted in his own jesting. Stiles settled back against Derek’s chest, feeling his arm holding him ever so tightly. A smile formed on his lips, as his eyes closed.

“I think... I would say that I like it, as odd as that may be. Then again, I’m not known for my normality, obviously.” His voice was addled by his sleepiness. Derek’s sturdy presence behind him; his heat and tight hold... All of it was lulling him to sleep rapidly. Derek grinned, kissing the smooth patch of skin just behind his ear.

“Go to sleep, prince.” He whispered fondly. Stiles did, and on this night, he dreamt of wolves.

* * *

 

The following day, the prince had woken to an empty bed and a very obnoxious Scott. He rubbed at his eyes blearily, as the events of the prior night ignited within his mind. He groaned when Scott predictably pulled the covers from Stiles’ body. Not even the playful banter and baiting to try and get him out of bed peacefully.

“What the hell, Scott!” He yelped. He shouldn’t have been as surprised as he was, this happened practically every morning. His vassal would mercilessly resort to extreme methods to wake the prince. This was the least creative of the methods he’d created so far. All of which Stiles suspected his friend enjoyed far too much.

“For the third time, your father is requesting a meeting in the dining room with you.” He said in a huffy tone. Stiles shot up from his bed at the mention of his father. Had he seen Derek last night? Did he see Stiles visiting the Black Wolf? Had word gotten to him of his disobedient behavior? His mind swirled in panic as his body practically jumped from the bed.

“Woah.” Scott exclaimed in disbelief, “Who’d have thought that would get you out of your bed so quickly?” He jested. Though Stiles was unamused, he was still too frantic with thoughts of being caught in a relationship with the Black Wolf.

“What for?” The prince asked quickly. “Why does he want to see me? Did he say?” Stiles knew his tone was desperate. Scott eyed him suspiciously before catching on to Stiles’ distress with an expression of understanding, and then disapproval. The vassal shook his head sullenly.

“I don’t know for certain. All I was told is that you are expected.” He answered remorsefully. Stiles was quick to dress. A simple, white, long-sleeved shirt and beige breeches. He slipped his feet into his plain, brown boots, practically tripping over himself, still shuffling them on while trying to rush through the halls. He paused at the top of the stairs to tamp his heel down the rest of the way, before running down the staircase.

Stiles made his way to the dining hall quickly, his fingers idly playing with Derek’s ring out of habit as he wrung his hands together. Bowing to the guards who stood before the doors, they opened and he stepped through. The sight he’s met with was like a punch to the gut. The image a startling deja vu of their last meeting. Only this time, standing next to his father, is none other than Chris Argent of the Templars. The very sight of the tense warrior made him uneasy.

“Stiles... I understand that this may seem a bit contradictory to what I said to you the last time we spoke, but I must insist, now, that you attend The Gauntlet with me. Our last meeting ended poorly, but I would like us to put that behind us and try to let the past be the past. For the upcoming Gauntlet, I want to uphold a certain... image, for the guests we will be hosting. When people from other cities and kingdoms come to us, I want them to see a particular embodiment of solidarity. I’m sure you understand.” Stiles stared at his father, jaw clenched.

“So I’m to attend when it makes you look good, but not when it could make you look badly?” He snipped irritably. The king shifted in his seat.

“Stiles, sit, eat. Please.” He implored. When Stiles stayed put, stubbornly, the templar at the king’s side exhaled slowly as if his patience was being tested by a trying child.

“This Gauntlet is a chance for our kingdom to show the world how strong our royal family is.” Chris explained gently, speaking slowly enough to offend Stiles. Rolling his eyes, he perched his hands on his hips. 

“Fine. I’ll attend The Gauntlet. Protesting the entire time at just how barbaric and unnecessary this savage practice truly is.” Stiles presented with a cocky grin. His grin melted slowly, as he watched Chris lean down, and whisper into his father’s ear.

“Stiles...” King Jonathan asked hesitantly, looking uncomfortable with what he was about to say. “I know you dislike The Crucible. But I thought you’d taken some kind of liking to it recently. What with your... Interest in The Black Wolf. What is it about him that has drawn you to the fights?” Stiles stared quietly at his father. 

“He’s a good fighter, and passionate about his weapon-arts.” He supplied guardedly. The king nodded. Chris looked as though he was suddenly paying rapt attention.

“And where did he... Learn his mastery of combat? Has he told you?” 

“It’s common knowledge, the rumors of his life and upbringing. Is it any wonder, really? Look, if this is just going to turn into an interrogation, I have more important things to do, my studies...” Stiles was wary of this situation, and after a pointed moment between the two older men, he was given permission to leave. He gladly took it.

* * *

  

Stiles had watched the first round of the Gauntlet with interest. The sight of his knight donning his kerchief only served to brighten his mood at the beginning, but as the match pressed on, worry began weighing heavy on his heart. His eyes dare not leave the Black Wolf for a single moment that he was in the arena. Witnessing this match was enlightening, to say the least. It was like seeing Derek for the first time, whose speed and strength bordered on the verge of inhuman. After his father’s questioning about the origins and quality of Derek’s fighting skills, he paid a little more attention to his prowess.

As it was, the warriors of the Gauntlet weren’t anything like the mediocre fools that vied each day in irremediable battles in hopes of winning the promised gold and fame. These warriors were the best of their kingdoms and cities, coming from all reaches of the continent. They were so different, all of them. He saw one whose skin was paper white and speckled, but had hair the color of red-hot steel. Another had dark brown skin and a shaved bald head covered in scars, knots of wood pierced through his ears. Though he spoke to a man of lighter skin, in an exotic language. All of them were extremely deadly in their own right; specializing in some aspect of battle. Some of them brought weapons Stiles had no name for. This only proved to force Derek in a state of peak performance. 

Stiles sat at his seat once again, Scott behind him in wait of any demands the prince might have. At his left was the King, and further still, was the Templar Knight, Chris. The Templar who was ever watchful, though his gaze hardly settled on the spectacular battle before him. Instead, it veered off to linger on Stiles, as though if he stared long enough he could tear away the layers and find the deep seated secrets the prince was hiding. It made Stiles’ skin crawl.

Suddenly, a burning, sharp pain in his chest stole his attention. His hand instinctively rushed up to cover the area just left of his chest, a little under his arm. That was when the collective gasps of the audience strayed his confused mind. His eyes skittered to the arena, instantly finding Derek. Derek who was slouching against his glaive with an arrow protruding from his chest. In the same place Stiles was covering with his hand; the phantom pain still flaring up in waves.

The prince did not think before he acted, once again letting his emotions get the best of him. He staggered to his feet, rushing the ledge of the royal perch to peer down at his knight.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re okay. Oh Goddess, please let him be okay.” He begged in a hushed tone. As if by some impossible chance, Derek’s head snapped up as if he had heard him. The Black Wolf’s gaze met Stiles’. Derek only spared his attention for a moment before he reached down and ripped the arrow from his body and punctured armor without even the slightest of hesitations. There was no indication of it paining him; not even a flinch in his demeanor. Yet as soon as the prince saw the arrow being ripped from the Black Knight, he felt his own body respond; a pain so unbearable it had him choking out a sob. His fingers dug into the spot he was still clutching, feeling as if the skin was being ripped and stretched, but he knew without a doubt there would be no tear in his flesh. It was completely a pang of empathy manifesting in himself.

Derek narrowed his eyes on the archer who had readied yet another arrow. His first opponent in the Gauntlet was nimble and swift, relying on long range to take out their enemies, but Derek knew he was faster. He dodged the arrow easily, with his focus more resolved and unhindered, he gripped his poleaxe tightly and rushed the opponent. His glaive cut into the dirt where it was being dragged on the floor, leaving a trail of dust and rubble in its wake. When in range, he pivoted his body, dodging another arrow, before he brought his weapon up with a forward momentum, slicing the archer in half at the waist. The crowd gasped in horror as the body’s upper portion was flung several feet away, leaving a trail of blood and extremities. The fight was over, the Black Wolf it’s victor. For the first time, the kingdoms citizens cheered for Derek’s victory. He represented them against all other peoples, and he had won for them. 

Stiles settled back into his seat, his hand still rested over the corresponding place Derek had been hit. He let out a long sigh before carding his free hand through his hair, relieved that his knight had lived to see another day. Though, the events he had just experienced were plaguing his mind, and he was already determined to find answers. 

However, Chris had never let his eyes stray from the prince. He watched in fascination with a twisted sense of curiosity.

* * *

 

Stiles didn’t partake in the events following the Gauntlet’s first battle. Instead his mind had been troubled by Derek’s unexplainable match. The baffling pain he felt led his thoughts to wander to precarious places. New questions begged to be answered. He silently left his father’s company in favor of sneaking off to his mother’s old study back at the castle. The same place they had practiced their magick together all those years before. He wasn’t quite sure what it was he was looking for, if there was anything to find at all. He was certain though, that despite his empathy, he should not be able to feel to physicalities of another being. The notion itself shook him to his very core.

Then again, the prince had been noticing things. Things about Derek. How he was able to do things no other man should be able to do. Stiles would be the first to boast about the Black Wolf’s amazing fighting talent, the first to gloat of his unmatched skill. However, that didn’t change the unease Stiles still felt when he let his magick see instead of his eyes. He forgot often how brutally unforgiving, and savage Derek’s aura was. How untamed it looked, how it thrashed out wildly around him. As if it were desperately searching for an outlet.

There were secrets about Derek. Secrets which Stiles knew for sure were there. He sensed the deception and guilt on his knight, though he would never comment on them. He had never thought to scour for answers. Despite Derek’s obvious aversions of the truth or diversions from the very topics that would lead to them, the prince trusted him. There was no doubt in his mind of that.

He began his search through the many books left by his mother. Most were from her old coven, she had told him once. Old magicks and secrets of the world that witches had documented over the ages. She had spent many hours slaving over these books, doing her best to relay their knowledge to her son. Now they lay on neglected shelves, coated in thick cobwebs and dust.

Stiles knew he only had but a few hours before his knight would trot up his tower, so he dove head first into his pursuit for the answers he was in search of. Looking for anything that referenced enhanced strength and speed. Of savage, feral auras and glowing blue eyes.

Though nothing he found was conclusive, during the numerous books he had skimmed through, and the many scrolls he consorted, it never failed that they would always lead him to the same word:

_Vilkatis_.

* * *

 

Stiles waited for Derek. His thoughts were deeply troubled by what he’d learned. When Derek came in through the window, Stiles was ready for him. Waiting in a way that was very different than the last time they’d met in his tower. This time, he was set on getting answers.

“Show me.” Stiles demanded sharply. Derek hesitated. He knew already what Stiles was referring to. When he made no move, Stiles marched up to him, hands flexing as he restrained himself from doing it personally. He stood a foot away from him, eyes determined and unwavering.

“I said, show me.” He insisted, voice harsh. Derek’s lips turned downwards, frowning as his body pulled tight in defense. He stalled, and Stiles reached. His hand was directed to the man’s shirt, intent to pull it up. He wanted to see what mark was left. If any. Before his touch could fall, Derek’s hand caught his wrist.

“Stiles...” He warned firmly, “don’t.” It was delivered in an angry tone, but beneath that, there was a plea. Stiles wasn’t having any of it, though. He couldn’t let this secrecy continue.

“Derek, _show me._ ” His own voice trailed off into something desperate. “Please.”

Derek sighed, and reluctantly pried his fingers away from the prince’s wrist. He wasn’t going to do it himself, but he wouldn’t stop Stiles. Hovering for a moment, Stiles licked his lips in anticipation. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and cleared his throat, clenching his fingers inward once, releasing, twice, and then finally hooking them into fabric. He lifted, higher, and higher, slowly, until it could raise no further. The flesh was perfect. Unblemished. Not even a bruise.

“Impossible... I saw it. I saw the arrow punch through your armor like it was paper! I felt it, Derek. I felt the wound as if it was my own.” He said, dropping the shirt and shifting a half pace backward, and then another. Disbelief etched his face. Derek felt panic clawing at his throat, but he tried to take control, and dispel the situation. 

“You were mistaken. There is no wound, because the arrow did not pierce the inner layers of my armor. It was just... anxiety... Panic, like what you experienced during the last match.” He tried to supply suggestively. Stiles face contorted in anger and confusion. The acrid stench of fear filled the air as Stiles drew back another step, casting his gaze aside.

“I’m giving you a chance here. Is there something you want to tell me, Black Wolf?” His voice was shaking. Derek swallowed against his own trepidation again, and took a step forward, lifting a hand to offer it, outstretched for his prince. Stiles only recoiled further, the sight of which sent a pang through Derek’s chest.

“Stiles... Please... Please just let me explain. I’ll explain. I’m not going to hurt you. I’ve never hurt you, I would never.” He begged, but Stiles head jerked quietly side to side, in disbelief. Could Derek really be a Vilkatis? His mother had told him of the many other creatures that roamed the Earth in secret, in human guise, but he’d always taken them as myth.

“Then explain! I’m waiting, Derek.” Stiles demanded anxiously. His breathing was quick, but contained. “Explain to me why this is now the second time you have no wound after being struck, and why you insult me by lying about them.” He was angry. Angry about the blatant deceit. Derek remained silent, unsure of what to say, or how to word it. The notion that this could be the culmination of every fear he’d fretted over for the last many months... That all the carefully hidden truths would finally be exposed, and take their toll on this tentative semblance of a relationship he’d built against the odds... The feeling was not much different from the destroyed, gutted sensation he endured the day he had watched his family burn. It felt like he was watching with his own eyes all the things he cared for tear away from him. Again.

“Do you not trust me?” Derek finally asked, still unmoving. The words brought Stiles’ eyes sharply back to the knight’s face. “Have I ever given you reason to doubt that you are safe, and cared for?” The sadness, and desperation that he saw in Derek’s visage made him feel awful. There was pain there beyond this moment. A pain from another life that Stiles knew nothing about. His empathy roused within him, feeling Derek’s anguish seep into his bones, swallowing him in a despairing darkness like no other. It filled Stiles with the sharp stings of guilt.

Before today, he would have done anything for Derek. If his secret visits to the Crucible did not convey that, he didn’t know what would. He would have followed Derek anywhere, but now... He’s not even sure what Derek _is_. After a long moment of internal debate, he remembered how Derek had so easily agreed, and thus far kept Stiles’ dark secret, of his witchcraft. If Derek could know what he was, and keep such a thing secret, then yes, he can trust him. They’ve both had hidden truths, and it would be hypocrisy to deny Derek that right when he’d taken advantage of it for so long himself. His hands pulled together in front of him. Looking down, he stared at the signet ring that he had not once removed since it had been given to him.

“Yes.” He whispered. “I trust you. I only wish that trust was something you had for me in return.” He finished boldly. Derek’s face flickered with guilt, but he hesitated in his spot no longer. It took a few, long strides of his legs to cross the room to Stiles. He stopped just short of him. He held still, in wait, and just as he began to lose hope that Stiles would allow him this embrace, the prince sagged into his chest. Immediately, Derek’s arms came up to wrap around him, supporting Stiles and desperately curling around him as best he could. Enveloping him. Silence filled the air around them, both of them taking a moment to relax into each other.

“You seriously need to stop scaring me. I fear that I might die of heart failure, if I am to witness you wounded again.” His tone suggested that he was joking, but Derek heard the frightened truth in his words. He rubbed his broad hand over Stiles’ spine soothingly.

“I’m sorry, prince. It is not my intent to worry you. You need not fear for me. I have told you before this world will not give me death. I have never been that lucky.” Perhaps, now though, it would be against his luck to die, now that he has found something worth living for. Someone worth fighting for. This only meant that Death would certainly come for him. Derek would not delude himself into thinking that he would be able to keep something precious for himself. The world seemed to take great pride in stealing everything away from him.

“If you would only stop this... Stop fighting in the Cruc--”

“No.”

Blunt, and final, Derek’s quick tone was harsh even to his own ears. His reaction had been automatic.

“But if you would just--”

“I said no, Stiles. That’s the end of it. The Crucible is my means for atonement. You cannot ask this of me.” He reiterated. Stiles didn’t take offense or question it this time. He had already known Derek would deny his requests before he’d spoken them, though, he saw no harm in trying. A quiet sigh fell through his parted lips as he hid his face for a moment into Derek’s chest. He could feel the weight of the day on them both, and the call of his bed just behind his legs was too loud to ignore.

“Very well... Alright. Come lay with me. This day has been too long, and I think that all of these... peculiar happenings have exhausted me.” Tugging Derek lightly, he pulled him onto the bed with him. As if by design, the fell unspeaking into their places. Derek’s chest to Stiles back. He never felt as complete as he did when this young man was in his arms. Stiles had never felt so safe being held. Derek kissed at his neck, listening to Stiles’ breath taper off and even out.

“I do trust you.” Derek whispered gently, because it was important that Stiles knew. He just couldn’t tell him the details yet. Not about his wolf. It wasn’t the right time. The prince nodded slowly, sleep already starting to overwhelm his mind.

“I believe you.” He murmured with one more strong exhale, before letting himself roll into his dreams. Derek didn’t sleep. He instead held tightly to Stiles, more scared than he’d been in a very, very long time. Comprehension dawning on him that he’d nearly lost his mate to the false truths he’d woven together so intricately, washed over him like an icy wind. He decided, firmly, to be more vigilant in the arena. He would give Stiles no more reason to fret, and pry open concerns neither of them were ready to handle.

* * *

 

The following days were routine. Stiles attended the Gauntlet as he was required by his father, and watched as the Black Wolf easily made his way through each enemy, climbing through the ranks. Though Stiles could no longer risk even a hurried meeting in the holding room, Derek always wore the prince’s kerchief on his arm for all to see. 

The following hours after the matches, Stiles would venture to his mother’s study and spend his free hours with research on all he could find regarding the mysterious _Vilkatis_. His suspicions that Derek was one of these beings grew the more he learned of them. Mysterious, shape shifting creatures who answered to the moon.

However, Derek’s victory in the Gauntlet seemed all but assured now. That eased the crippling fear that hid just around the recesses of his heart. That was...until Stiles had heard tales about Jackson of Whittemore Hall-- the sinister warrior that had also been making his way through the matches. They say he is a warrior even more deadly than the Black Wolf. Stiles, of course, doubted there was any man that could best his knight.

Rumors flew about this Jackson. A sire-less welp who had been adopted, saved from a chaste and modest life in a monastery by a barren noble couple who could not bear to find surrogate for the man’s heir. He had grown up as a ruthless, violent, perfectionist child who held himself to a higher standard than even his adoptive parents. Some said that it was possible he was not even human, a changeling child most said. It was very curious indeed.

In fact, Stiles was set to see this _Jackson_ fight in tomorrow’s match. He would judge this warrior himself. Human, or not, violence meant little against his steadfast Black Wolf.

* * *

 

Stiles sat upon the royal perch, watching yet another fight of the Gauntlet, only during this fight, his knight would not be participating. This match belonged to a grungy looking contestant and the infamous warrior, Jackson that so many of the kingdom have been gossiping about. Though Derek was not to fight today, Stiles was itringuied, to say the least. He wanted to measure this infallible knight that he’s heard of so often.

But the prince would watch in horror as what could only be explained as the most terrifying spectacle imaginable played out before his eyes. Jackson was indeed ruthless and so expertly precise it was unnatural. Most troubling yet, though, Jackson never charged his opponents. Instead he let them come to him. Dodging with an almost graceful finesse, slicing with his double-edged broadsword in calculated places; cutting ligaments and arteries that were susceptible to extended bleeding. The other warrior just slowly came to a stop, blood leaking from his armor in gushes before Jackson walked over, moved his sword up to his neck, and sliced. That was not enough for this wicked warrior. He proceeded to hold their head at angle so the blood would pour out onto the battlefield while he grinned up at the king’s perch. It was the most sickening thing the prince had ever witnessed in his life. 

Stiles was struck with the reality of the day’s date. That it marked the end of the semi-finals. That the warrior Jackson had just entered into the final round, making him the Black Wolf’s final adversary. The prince sat in shock of what he had just seen; of what this all meant.

There was no way that Stiles would let Derek face such a ruthless _abomination_ such as Jackson. During their meet tonight, the prince had planned to force the Black Wolf to relinquish his place in the Gauntlet if it was the last thing he did.

* * *

 

“Derek!” Stiles exclaimed when he turned mid pace, seeing him cresting the tower window. He’d been fraught with worry. It seemed as though that was all he did, these days. Worry about Derek. It really wasn’t healthy, he knew that much. He wasn’t about to give Derek up though. Not after everything they’d already been through. Standing up on the floor once he’d climbed in, Derek looked confused. 

“What’s wrong? What did I do?” He asked quickly, looking around as if he could see the problem somewhere in the room. Of course there was nothing there, but Stiles had stormed right up to him.

“Did you see the match today?!” Stiles asked in almost frantic alarm. Derek frowned, and raised his hands to rest them on his shoulders. Squeezing firmly, he tried to will Stiles into calming down.

“Relax... No, I didn’t go to see the match. I had to go and get some of my armor reinforced at the blacksmith, and sharpen my glaive.” He explained slowly. Even if he hadn’t been busy, he wouldn’t have gone. If he didn’t have to fight, it was a waste of his time. 

“Goddess.... Derek, you’re fighting Jackson of Whittemore tomorrow!” There was a moment of blank silence between them. Stiles was staring pointedly up at Derek, waiting for some kind of reaction. Derek, however, failed to see why this should mean anything to him.

“Well... That is.. great? I’ll kill him just as I have the rest. Stiles, what is this about?” Derek shifted a little, uneasy with Stiles anxiety just as he always had been. Stiles was exasperated at the response he got, throwing his hands in the air, knocking the warrior’s grip from his body. Quickly, he spun on his heels, and began to pace the room. 

“What is this about? Seriously? Derek! How can you just... completely disregard an opponent? This isn’t just another townsman who fancies himself to be a Godly combat aficionado! He bested every other man in The Gauntlet aside from you. He’s deadly. In the match today...” Stiles stopped short in his pacing, back to Derek. He shivered a little, hugging himself. “He was fearsome. Watching him fight chilled me to the bone. I’ve never seen someone so _quick_ and _precise_.”

Sighing quietly, Derek walked over and slid his arms around Stiles waist, holding him quietly for a moment.

“Stiles.... Relax. Please. No matter how good he is, I promise you, I am better. I will win. I have more to live for, now, than to die for.” Normally, those words would placate his young prince, but Stiles gave a growl, pushing Derek off of him again, turning to glare into his eyes. Derek was stunned to see the way his copper hues simmered with anger. They were so earthy, and raw...

“I will not relax! You are plenty relaxed for the both of us! You weren’t there, Derek! _He wasn’t human!_ ” Stiles hissed those last words. Finally, it seemed to click, for Derek, just what he was trying to say. Inhaling slowly, Derek closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face.

“What would you have me do, Prince?” He asked finally, looking back up and motioning his hand into the air, desperate for this situation to come to resolve.

“Leave The Gauntlet! Resign the competition and ease my nightmares!” Derek gave an instinctive growl without realizing it, ready to go on the defensive.

Until Stiles flicked his nose. That alone was startling enough to completely stun him.

“Don’t you even start to growl and bare your teeth at me, I will not tolerate it! I will toss you out that very window you came in through! Perhaps I should anyway! Better you be crippled by my hand, than dead by another!” 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Derek stepped back a little and reached behind him to close and latch the window. Slowly, he leaned down on the sill. “Stiles... Come here.” He urged softly. He spoke as though he were dealing with a scared and upset pup. It took a little bit of beckoning, but Stiles slowly shuffled forward to him, coming to an irritated stop right in front of Derek. Looking up, Derek reached a hand up to stroke up and down the princes spine. 

“Listen to me. I understand. I understand the severity of the situation, and I understand what’s at stake. I am not going into this battle flippantly. I need you to trust me, and trust in my skills. I realize that I’ve never fought an opponent like this man. I will not underestimate him. But you cannot ask me to forfeit. Call me foolish, blame my pride, whatever you wish. This is something I started, and I must finish. I will not die. I will never die without your explicit permission, alright?”

Stiles was stuck in an internal battle, fighting the sweet, imploring glint of Dereks dark-rimmed eyes. “This is foul play, I’ll have you know. Really dirty, underhanded... You should be ashamed of yourself.” He whined, fists clenched at his sides. Derek gave him one of his slow, lazy grins, and he knew then that he had Stiles. 

“Considered me chastised and thoroughly remorseful, Prince.” He murmured, before catching the angry kiss his love pressed onto his mouth.

* * *

 

“Stiles you really shouldn’t be here...” Derek hissed gently as the familiar vision of his red-cloaked prince stood beside him, firmly tying his handkerchief onto his arm. He could see the curve of a smirk on his shadowed face.

“You should know by now that ‘shouldn’t’ to me, means ‘should’. Stop fretting. I told my father I had a nasty stomach ache. I gave him all the gross details, and told him I may be a few minutes at the privy.” Stiles snickered, hand lingering on Derek’s arm.

“Oh, that’s attractive.” Derek replied, even if he was grinning a little. Stiles had been about to lean in and say something, but abruptly, their conversation was interrupted.

“You know... When I heard the rumors about His Majesty, the Crown Prince slutting around with degenerates, I didn’t really believe it. I even spoke up to one of my friends and said they were false.” Both Derek and Stiles jerked, glancing aside and seeing none other than Sir Jackson of Whittemore Hall standing a few feet away from them. He was attractive without his helm, but the cocky grin on his face was one that could only belong to a man who loved himself more than anyone else. 

“I would have even put money on it. But you know... Seeing the famous Black Wolf Knight here with his royal Bitch, I’m not disappointed. Do you fuck all the winners? If I kill your Beast, Prince, does that mean I get a ride?” Jackson's grin pulled into an even wider smirk as he turned, and walked towards the gates, ready to walk out when the horns sounded.

“.... I’ve changed my mind, Derek. I fully support this battle. Kill him, kill him dead, and make it painful.” Stiles ordered in a restrained voice. Derek was barely controlling himself from lunging forward and killing him now.

“Oh, I will, Prince. I will.”

* * *

 

In the moment the battle was flagged to begin, Jackson had closed the distance between him and the Black Wolf in a flash. The surprise of the warrior’s speed momentarily stunned Derek, he had never seen a human move so fast. The glint of Jackson’s blade was enough to shake Derek from his stupor just quick enough for him to dodge the attack. Though Jackson was quicker.

Using an unfathomable amount of strength, Jackson slammed his side into the front of Derek’s chest, sending the Black Wolf staggering back in shocked disbelief. The speed and strength of this warrior was on par of his own when shifted, if not more refined. He didn’t have much time to think, before he knew it, his opponent was already charging him again. Derek mustered his strength, gripping his poleaxe from the very end of its hilt and swung it in a wide sweep in front of him. Jackson faltered, jumping back just enough for the head of Derek’s blade to screech across his breastplate.

The warrior stilled, spinning his broadsword in a flaunt of skill and showmanship rather than a taunt, though his stance was low and tense, ready for any attack. Derek kept his weapon at the ready, sliding one if his hands further up its hilt to manage its weight efficiently. The head of his weapon dug into the ground, grinding against the dirt as his heavy breathing swayed his body. Jackson audibly chuckled, easing his posture and bringing his sword up to rest on his shoulderplate.

“I don’t know what I expected of you, but I assure you, it wasn’t... this.” He motioned toward the Black Wolf with his hand. Derek could practically hear the smirk from behind the warrior’s helm. He wanted nothing more than to slice it off of his face.

“The people of my kingdom speak of your greatness and I admit, even I was impressed.” He said as he set a leisurely pace to circle around Derek. It was so unsettling, the way he moved. Like a _snake_ slithering about its prey, taut with intent to strike and poison.

“But looking at you now, I can’t help but be disappointed. Perhaps your bitch has made you soft?” Derek couldn’t stop the deep, rumbling growl that worked its way through his throat. Jackson laughed again, but kept to his strut in a quick circle around the Black Wolf. Derek tightened his grip on his glaive, wanting nothing more but to feel the slow, sawing sensation of Jackson’s flesh and bone flaying open beneath it. His wolf growled within him at the same time, anger clawing through him, but Derek couldn’t help but also be confused. Stiles had told him, in great detail, each of Jackson’s fights. How he was more stationary, standing in wait while his opponents charged him. The warrior in front of him was doing the exact opposite though, resorting to an all out offensive rather than a tactile defense.

Derek’s mind was also troubled by a far more nefarious suspicion yet. His keen wolf senses had caught whiff of Jackson’s scent during the warrior’s earlier barrage and it was immediately obvious that his stench was not that of a human. This... _thing_ was something else. His wolf was alert and attentive, its hackles raised and teeth bared. He didn’t hesitate to unleash it to the surface. He shifted behind the safety of his armor. His senses were flooded, far sharper and more acute.

The sound of Jackson’s approached prompted him to jerk his head to the side, facing the warrior’s assault. The warrior’s weapon was positioned and ready, stiff in his hold, but this time Derek was ready. The Black Wolf raised his glaive, which felt far more light with the power of his shifted form filling him with supernatural strength, stationing the weapon to his side, winding it back and swinging it forward letting the poleaxe fly from his hands in a deadly spin that was directed towards Jackson.

Derek relished the sudden spike of alarm that filled the air, clearly caught off guard of such a bold act. No one in the arena would dare find himself without a weapon, but Derek had _thrown_ his purposely at his opponent. It had been aimed perfectly. The speed had been calculated, the proper amount of force and swing... There was no way it should have missed. And yet... Everyone, including Derek, watched his glaive clattered and skittered across dirt. Jackson had dodged... Disappeared.

* * *

 

Stiles had been trying to get through to the stairs, to climb up to the box-seating where his father was perched to spectate and oversee the final battle of the gauntlet, which had already begun. There was an unbearable amount of people flooding the stands, though, and it was difficult for Stiles to get through. By the time he’d managed to get to the guard at the staircase, he was hearing the telltale clang of metal on metal. He could even see flashes of light reflecting from the  battle between the wooden slats of the stands. 

“I need to get through... “ Stiles told the guard warily, his eyes trying to see whatever he could. It wasn’t much. He felt more than his eyes could catch.

It was sudden, when it hit him. Light-headed, and sick with the intense rush of pain that afflicted his body, Stiles gripped the railing next to him, immediately bent over and emptying his stomach. He didn’t need to see to know it had happened again. The phantom pain... This had been a deadly blow, cleaving through armor and mail to pierce Derek’s skin to the bone. To the organs. For a moment, Stiles truly thought he was going to die. Tears flooded his eyes, as he heaved again, shaking, and holding his ribs where the throbbing pain wracked him.

“....Prince? Prince Stiles?” Slowly, his hearing began to work again, and he shook his head, as if to stop the ringing. He was shaking, hot and cold at once, a sweat beading at his brow as he tried to breathe. It felt as though his lungs would not inflate. 

“Prince, please say something! Should I fetch your father?” The guard was a young man, probably new to his position. Most likely Stiles’ own age. Clenching his eyes shut, Stiles shook his head and finally swallowed a few gulps of air, gripping the other’s forearm for support, to lean up. He tried to see, desperately, any bit of the battle that would tell him that Derek was okay. His eyes were swimming, though. 

“What’s happened in the fight?” Stiles demanded. The guard looked confused, and torn. He started to ask his question again, making Stiles angry. “Please! Just tell me what’s happened in the fight!”

“W-well... Your Highness... The Black Wolf has taken a harsh blow to the to sternum from Sir Jackson. It doesn’t look good.” Gritting his teeth, Stiles cleared his throat, and leaned again, this time to spit the remaining bile from his mouth. 

“I have to go. Send word to my father that I’ve fallen even more ill, and have returned to the castle for rest. I don’t need an escort, I can make my own way.” Lurching away from him, Stiles clutched his arm around his aching ribcage, and shouldered his way through the crowd, out of the arena.

Stiles waited until he was far enough away from the arena that it would be safe, before starting to sprint in the other direction, hissing as his body flared in pain from the phantom wound.

His mind was made, he knew what he must do. Whether it was perilous or not. He would not sit idly by while Derek died. He would muster all of the magick he could in order to save him. Which was exactly what he intended to do.

* * *

 

The lines were drawn. Intricate symbols edged around the circle, with a pentagram at its core. The prince was still on his knees, his body situated in the center. He threw the lump of chalk he had used to the side, before slowly closing his eyes. He focused on the energies surrounding him. The symbols already pulsing raw power into the air with a silent thrum. He willed his belief to morph the magick into something bright and hard, crystal in its sheen, but unbreakable as steel.

Stiles knew this was dangerous. He knew he was being careless. How of all places, he had set a casting circle so blatantly within his own room. He could practically hear the pleas of his mother echoing in the confines of his mind, begging for him to keep his magick secret. To never use it so recklessly. Yet the phantom pain of a blade still stung at his side, and he knew without the shroud of doubt what it was.

The thought of today’s match still tormented his mind. How Derek was fighting that frightening man... No... _Creature_. 

How dangerous and nefarious the new warrior’s aura was. Memories of the way it almost seemed to _slither_ around his body sent a shiver up his spine. What had him so frantic though, so desperate to keep Derek safe, was the sheer brutality and slick finesse Stiles had observed. It struck a deep fear within the prince. His mind supplied images of Derek being conquered by this wicked warrior, the notion had his hand instinctively moving to his side. It laid over the area just under his ribs. He knew that there was no wound, but that didn’t quell the constant waves of discomfort emanating from that spot.

However, the reasoning behind it was of no mystery to the prince, for Stiles already knew why he had felt such an immense pain. It was because Derek was feeling it. That Derek had been wounded during the battle. For the briefest moment, Stiles had been dumbstruck. How was he _feeling_ the physical pain of another? Never before had his empathy transmitted the corporeal aspects of a person he was in tune with. It was new, and terrifying. Disconcerting, yet, how he was feeling Derek over such a large distance. None of it made sense.

Stiles already knew how intense things with Derek were. How his mind and body felt so harmonious with the man. He had never felt so connected with another before. Stiles had always thought that it had something to do in part of how he felt for Derek. That his emotions amplified the effects of his empathy thus creating a unique link between them, but all of it was no more than speculation. Even now, after seventeen years of his life, his _gift_ was still such an enigma.

None of that really mattered now anyway. The prince’s mind was still plagued with a terrifying fear. Which was why, despite the constant protest of his mind, he let his heart dictate his actions and began casting in the openness of his room.

So focused on his endeavors to send protective magick to Derek, Stiles did not notice the Templar peering through his chamber door, glassy blue eyes hard with resolve.

* * *

 

No sooner had the huge blade cut into his side, that Derek hit the ground and rolled away quickly. His teeth were clenched against the pain, his blood staining dark patches in the ground. Already his body was healing, but his lung had been hit, that would take a little bit of extra time, before it was completely mended. 

Luck had returned to him, as he had landed from his momentary retreat right beside his weapon. As if they were made for each other, his hand had found it’s perch upon the polearms grip. It’s reassuring weight in his hand was enough support for him to hop back up to his feet. Jackson was slinking around in slow, calculating motions, trying to gauge which way Derek would move. Left... Right.... Left.... Right... He didn’t anticipate for Derek to charge at him head on like an angry bull. Which was precisely why Derek did. 

The hit was brutal, sending Jackson to the ground in a loud crash. The warrior’s weapon flung from his grasp leaving him momentarily defenseless. Jackson staggered back in a desperate attempt to reclaim his sword, but Derek was quicker. The Black Wolf kicked the blade with an excessive amount of force, sending it to the farthest reaches of the arena. There would be no way for Jackson to regain it, a fact that he must have known as well, for the stink of horror and panic filled Derek’s lungs.

The Black Wolf was lightning fast, gripping his glaive and slamming it to the ground in an incredible display of power. Though the blade did not meet its mark, for Jackson had quickly rolled to the side, the sound of it nearly boomed through the arena. Sir Jackson scurried to his feet, instantly zoning in on his blade, making a frantic dash to retrieve it. Derek pulled his polearm from the ground, and threw it again. It spun through the air with a deadly force before the blunt end of it hit Jackson in the back, sending the warrior to the ground.

Derek wasted no time in making his way to his opponent, straddling the warrior and bringing his fists down hard with all of his inhuman strength. The sound of armor grinding echoed throughout the arena as Derek continued his uncontrolled assault. When Jackson’s feeble attempts to stop the attack stalled and his body fell limp, Derek rose to his feet, slowly stalking toward his glaive.

He bent down, feeling the familiar weight of his weapon in his hand as he made his way back to his adversary, barely moving on the ground before him. A sudden swell of pride filled his chest. This battle had been the culmination of everything Derek had come to expect from The Crucible, and The Gauntlet. It was the hardest battle he'd fought so far, and his victory, guaranteed now, was the sweetest he'd tasted yet. He raised his weapon high above him, the sharp blade reflecting the dim light above in a beautiful sheen, but just before he was to bring his poleaxe down to slice the warrior’s head clean from his body, the arena’s horns blared loud, stalling the final blow.

Derek almost didn’t stop, but the confused whispers that filled the arena gradually drew him out of his bloodlust. Slowly, he straightened, and stood, looking around for the center of the commotion. It felt almost like he’d just surfaced from a pool of boiling water. Sweat drenched him beneath his armor, and there was an uncomfortable tensity in his muscles and skin. 

Something was wrong. His eyes went immediately to the king, before sweeping to the right. Stiles' seat was empty.

An old man stood at the podium where the Contest announcer normally perched to call out the names and details of the matches played there. He was dressed in white, from head to toe, save for a bold, red cross emblazoned across his chest. 

Templar.

“Congratulations to our victor! The Black Wolf! I apologize, for cutting the festivities short...” His voice trailed off, and the man glanced to a boy, seemingly the same age of the prince, at his side. The brunette Templar was focused intently on Jackson, who was slowly gathering himself from his defeat. 

“...But I bear great, and disturbing news! A witch has been captured! We are holding trial in thirty minutes, in the Center of the City! In the name of God, I, Gerard Argent, leader of the Templars and your holy church, declare this Gauntlet ended! Now... Who wants to burn a witch to celebrate?!”

* * *

 

Night quickly took it’s reign of the skies, but Derek was focused on nothing but the silent and insistent tug of the bond. He didn’t need the scent of Stiles, nor the familiar beating his heart to know where he was. The bond called to him, sensing his urgency, and filled him with the need to find his mate.

He ran through the vacant streets of the kingdom, following the trail of an invisible line. He didn’t stop once to catch his breath, the wolf inside him pushing his muscles until they burned and ached. None of it was of consequence, his sole drive was the safety of his prince.

Derek’s heart fell into the pit of his stomach as he neared the center of the kingdom. The market square was filled with nearly every inhabitant. Though he was not close enough to see them yet, his hearing had deciphered the sick chant they yelled in unison from a mile away.

“Witch! Burn him! Burn the witch!” He heard in collective. The wolf clawed from beneath Derek’s skin, begging to be released; to be unleashed upon those who would harm their mate. He held it in just enough to focus on his running, until finally, he was in the thick of the crowd. The sight of it stole his breath.

In the center, tied to a large wooden stake, was his Stiles. The Templars surrounded him, each of them held their weapons. They were in a defensive stance, eyes locked firmly onto Stiles’ squirming form, their faces did little to mask their fear. The prince cried out, begging for a chance to explain.

“Please! You don’t understand! I have committed no evils! Witches do not consort with the Devil! We don’t even believe in such a monster! Please, you must believe me! Witches have only done right by their magick! Healing the sick, blessing the lands, praying for protections and safety for those we love! Please! Please you must believe me!” Then the same older man from The Crucible came into view, sneering from behind the stake. It was Gerard, the father of Chris Argent. The true leader of the Templars, though he rarely ever left the Cathedral where he orchestrated all of the Templar’s directives. He was a usurper of the Pope’s power, controlling the nation with the ‘Will of God’. In his hand was a lit torch. The bright fire illuminated the area, seemingly innocent in its use of nothing more than a beacon of light and warmth. To Derek though, the flames of that torch were the darkest, most malicious blend of red and orange he’d ever beheld. Darker even than the flames of his past. His legs were locked, frozen by the horror and disbelief that flooded and overwhelmed him with every labored breath. 

All around him, people jeered, and yelled, throwing things, and screaming out condemnations. There was a tidal wave of hatred and fear, all of it directed at the scared young man at the stake. These people who every day had sung praises, and told stories of the very person they cursed so vehemently now. He noticed, though, a distinct absence of the King. King Jonathan was not anywhere to be found. How could he not be here? Did he even know what was happening to his son this very moment? That he was about to die?!

“Lies! Do not listen to the witch! His words are poison! Every breath he exhales is a spell meant to lure you under his dark influence! We must purge this evil with divine flames of our God, The Almighty Father! In his name, I will rid this servant of Satan from our kingdom! Heavenly Father! On these eve we faithful few seek to please you by doing your divine work! We have found a demon amongst our own! Cast your eye from the demons wretched existence, and hasten his descent into the fiery pits of Hell! Amen!” The words spill from his mouth like a vile malignity. Many of the people have grown quiet and conflicted as Gerard sent his vicious prayer to the skies, unsure if condemning their beloved prince to a fiery grave is the right thing to do. It seemed as if the crowd was torn about the condemnation. 

This same prince that would visit their shops and jest with the people. The witty prince who played harmless pranks that set smiles on the peoples faces and helped with menial work despite his noble blood. The prince who never failed to sneak food to the poor and sent gold to those who struggled with poverty.... However, Gerard was as cunning as he was treacherous, picked up on the citizens hesitance. He threw the torch at the base of the oiled wood before protest could break rampant, and the pit immediately burst into a roaring flame.

Stiles screamed, feeling the fire whip against his skin, already searing his tender flesh as the oil set the flames into an instantaneous frenzy. The moment Derek saw the fire beginning to consume his mate, his mind blanked in shock. His vision flickered back to the day when he watched his kingdom burn with his family still inside. Pacing around the castle helplessly, howling for them. Where he could do nothing but listen to their screams until the flame’s roar consumed their lives.

He couldn’t go through that again. He wouldn’t. He refused to stand by helplessly a second time as all he loved burned to ash before his eyes. The bond supplied Stiles’ pain tenfold. The stench of his burning flesh sent Derek into a wild desperation. His eyes blazing a brilliant blue while his features began to skew without his consent. A snarl of rage escaped him.

“Move! Out of my way!” He yelled, but the townspeople barely budged when he tried to move through, the crowd too thick. With every second that passed, Stiles was burning more and more in front of him. Stiles suddenly screamed again, only this time it was not a plea for mercy. It was past the time for mercy now. 

No, this time he screamed a name.

“Derek! _Derek!_ ” Stiles shrieked. A sound so frantic and panicked, he choked on his sobs  and smoke while his tears flowed freely down his soot-darkened face. 

It was the last strike to Derek’s control before it shattered. The last of his resolve crumbled away as his face morphed fully, giving way to a glimpse of the true beast that lingered below the surface. His ears were pointed; his claws and fangs extended to a deadly point. He roared, thunderous and menacing, voice overpowering the loud discourse in the cramped town center. A violent rapture of power exploding his lungs as rage and his Beast took hold. 

The people turned and screamed in horror as they took in the sight of him. Of the monster they all suspected him of being. He didn’t care, none of them mattered. _None of them existed_. His mind was focused on the singular goal of Stiles’ safety. 

Nothing more.

The crowd dispersed, everyone scattering to distance themselves from the horrible beast; to escape the wrath of the true _Black Wolf_.

Derek leapt into the air, flipping his body to land in a crouch in front of the Templars. Their fear seeped into the air as soon as their eyes landed on him. His mouth watered, begging for the taste of their blood on his tongue and swallow their souls as they died. He snarled and watched in delight as they quivered and took a step back. Gerard however, drew his weapon and readied for a fight.

“Do you not see!?” The old Templar announced, “This is the witches pet! A creature of the Devil! He would lure you all into a false safety before he sent his beast to feast on your flesh!” The words grated on Derek’s ears, though he would be more than happy to oblige. His instincts were pleading for a chance to sink its fangs into any and all who put his prince in harms way.

“Attack, you fools! Kill the devil-beast!” Gerard commanded. They began to rush him at once, all of them still stinking of terror and fright and adrenaline. Derek leapt forward, rushing the nearest Templar before easily slashing at his throat with his claws. The feel of the skin tearing under the razors of his fingers didn’t even begin to satiate the dark hunger he hadn’t realized he harbored. The other two faltered for a moment, but charged at him together. 

Derek was too quick in this monstrous form, his speed unmatched by the pathetic humans who sought to attack him. He easily dodged, grabbing the arm of the nearest Templar, twisting it back and around their body. The sound of bones cracking filled him with a primal glee as the screams of agonizing pain followed shortly after. Derek smiled, a terrorizing sight of sharp, animalistic teeth, pleased by the sound as he ripped the arms clean from the warrior’s body before using the appendage to beat the Templar in the head. The warrior fell to the ground in a bloodied heap.

The last of the Templars swung his blade swift and true. It only grazed Derek’s abdomen thanks to his reflexes but the Black Wolf barely hesitated, pivoting to the side and grabbing onto the man with his clawed hands. One settled on the warrior’s head, the other to grab at the arm holding their blade. Derek twisted the arm back, just like the last Templar before jerking the man’s head aside. He reared back and sunk his teeth into the neck as if it were made of bread. His mouth filled with a gush of warm, coppery liquid before he clamped down harder and ripped back, pulling the Templar’s esophagus from his throat. The warrior joined the rest in a dead pile of bone and flesh on the ground with a sick, wet thud. Derek spat the man’s throat out as well, and roared once more. A virile, but short battle cry. He spun in anticipation of facing Gerard, but the man was gone, have fled during Derek’s rampage. 

The pungent scent of Stiles’ flesh scorching pulled his attention again. Only seconds had passed, but even a single second was time wasted. Without another moment of faltering, he stepped into the fire, despite the intense pain of flames biting at his skin. 

It didn’t matter to him. He could heal. All that mattered was getting Stiles to safety. Stiles who had passed out from the smoke in his lungs. His claws slashed the ropes that bound the prince, releasing him from the burning stake. Derek took him into his arms, hoisting him up. One hand under his knees, the other behind his back, holding Stiles close to him as he turned and sprung from the danger of the flames.

Stiles’ skin was red, fire licked and tender, but Derek quickly deduced that there would be no lasting damage. The burns were not severe, he had gotten to him in time. Stiles stirred in his hold, a shaking arm coming up to clutch onto the metal of Derek’s blood-soacked armor, whimpering in pain. Derek looked down to gaze upon the prince’s face, instinct pleading to nuzzle at his prince’s skin to comfort and protect. Stiles’ eyes fluttered open, but only just barely. Those honey-amber orbs peered up at the Black Wolf through half lidded eyes. His grip on Derek’s armor tightened for a fraction of a moment before he fell slack in Derek’s arms, losing consciousness completely with a rattling cough that smelled of burnt wood. 

The Black Wolf reared his head back, bellowing out a haunting howl into the night sky. It echoed, without reply, melting into silence.

His mate was alive. His mate was safe.


	7. Chapter 7

Every step, every second that passed, Derek listened. Every single heartbeat from Stiles’ chest was his drive to keep moving. One foot in front of the other. The streets were eerily empty, doors and shutters barred against the Witch and his Beast. Derek could still smell the acrid stench of burnt flesh and wood smoke. The crackle of flames wasn’t far enough away from them. Behind his back, smoke rose into the sky like a signal. Gritting his teeth and swallowing, Derek held onto Stiles tighter, keeping him close as he navigated through town. No soldiers, nor guards came to stop them. Not even a Templar showed face. 

Soon, the cobblestone road petered out to dirt and weed, as Derek passed into the slums. He was headed towards the Eastern Gate where his shack of a home rested on the outskirts of town. It was a pit stop. There was no way they could stay in town, not now. He wouldn’t risk Stiles’ life by staying so close to the Templars. 

Inside his shanty, Derek was hesitant to set Stiles down, but he needed his hands. Carefully, he laid the prince out on his pallet, taking care not to disturb the burns, before scrambling to pack. He couldn’t take everything, even with his scant belongings. In a leather bag, he stuffed the necessities. Some items of food, clothing, a small leather-bound book, and a smaller leather pouch with bottles of oils. Glancing around hurriedly, his eyes sharp and calculating, Derek inhaled, mentally going over the list of items he’d packed in his head. A whimpered sigh from Stiles reminded him of the need to hurry. 

With all of his armor still on his body, Derek looked around in a sudden mild panic. His glaive wasn’t here. It was still on the dirt ground of the arena, where he’d left it in his hurry to find Stiles. There was no time to retrieve it. Cursing quietly, he instead grabbed his rarely used long sword from where it lay propped against a corner, strapping it’s leather belt around his chest, fastened at the shoulder, before sliding the heavy iron blade into its sheath. It was lighter than his poleaxe, so perhaps in the long run it would be a blessing to not have it’s cumbersome presence. At last, Derek slipped the leather bag over his shoulder as well, and wrapped Stiles in the heavy wool blanket he laid on, and lifted him off the bed. One last parting glance at his house, and Derek realized that he wouldn’t miss it. This was not his home. Not as long as Stiles was in his arms. His home was with his prince. Ducking his head, Derek hurried out, leaving the door hanging wide open behind him as he carried Stiles away from Belirti, and into the forests that surrounded it. He instinctively directed himself East, heading for the only place he could think to go.

* * *

 

Stiles awoke to the taste of ash on his tongue and the lingering whispers of flames on his flesh. He jerked forward, breath short and frantic as he hurriedly looked around himself, memories of being consumed in fire still fresh in his mind. His eyes skimmed the small room he was in. The walls were dark with soot. The room was illuminated by a single, flickering candle far from his reach, set on a dirtied and burnt desk. As he stared at the flames a few moments longer, his mind surged with worry. His hands instinctively reached down, checking his legs. He let out a shuddering breath as he took in the sight of his singed flesh. The wounds had been cleaned, though. Under him, separating him from the cold stone floor was a thick layer of animal furs, creating a kind of bedroll. 

Looking to his side he noticed a small clay bowl of water, with a soot-stained rag hanging out of it. Derek must have just been tending to him...

The sound of heavy footsteps stole his attention.

The door creaked open slowly to reveal Derek standing at it’s frame. The relief that flooded Stiles was palpable as he sagged backwards again, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to feel elation at the sight of his knight, but the recollection of previous events stayed him. The memory of seeing Derek, through hazy eyes and heavy mind; his inhuman face. It haunted his thoughts, though it all seemed to fit into place so perfectly. Days of suspicion and researching the mysterious Vilkatis had led him to believe that Derek was among their kind, only, the man was so talented about diverting Stiles’ theories. Still, it was better than seeing a Templar at the door. He had feared for a moment that his rescue had been but a dream.

However, the prince could see it, and even if he couldn’t, he could just as easily _feel_ it. Stiles resorted to his empathy and immediately his body was wracked with guilt and anxiety. Derek’s aura was subdued, almost as if it were trying to hide itself. Stiles wanted nothing more than to bring light to the secrecy Derek guarded so desperately, but what with recent events, the prince was just glad to be alive. Though he couldn’t stifle the sting of hurt knowing that Derek still didn’t trust him enough to be open with this. The silence was overwhelming between them.

Shifting uncomfortably, Stiles hissed and lurched forward again, shuddering at the pain his burns lanced through him. Derek immediately started forward, stopping just a few paces away when Stiles held a hand up, taking a few deep breaths. 

“Can I...” Derek started, unsure of what he was asking. Stiles swallowed hard and took in a deep breath.

“Aloe. I need you to find me some Aloe leaves... and fresh water. Quickly.” He instructed. Derek gave a jerky nod, grabbing the clay bowl from the floor, and practically ran from the room to fulfill his task. Stiles only just noticed that his armor had been removed, and was carefully piled in a corner. Sighing when Derek was gone, the prince frowned down at his legs, trying to decide how to handle this. The sight of his charred clothing was a painful reminder of his obvious banishment. He had been outed, his identity of a witch known to the entire kingdom. There would be no returning. That truth alone was enough to catch the prince’s breath.

Derek was surprisingly quick about his errand, returning with a fresh bowl of crystal clear water, and a handful of aloe leaves. His hair was matted down to his head, damp. Only then, did Stiles realize he could hear the soft patter of rain outside, and the drip of leaks throughout... whatever this place was.

Hurrying over, Derek set the bowl down, and offered the leaves. Stiles took just two of them, not wanting to tell the warrior he hadn’t needed that many. Careful to not slosh the water, Stiles diligently milked the gel-like liquid inside the aloe leaves out into the water, before using the tip of his finger to mix it in, murmuring a silent spell. Derek hadn’t been anticipating the sudden use of magick, jerking back a half step with a restrained growl rumbling in his chest. Stiles ignored it, though with some irritation, focusing on pushing more energy into the mixture, until the water had a subtle, silky shine. 

Lifting the bowl, Stiles dipped his hand into the water, many times, rubbing it over his burns. At first, he winced and bit his lip to keep from emitting any sounds of pain. Soon, though, the magick took hold, and his flesh knit itself back together quickly, until there was no sign of charred flesh anymore. Even Derek was amazed, as he skirted in a little closer, looking at Stiles’ legs. After a moment, though, his frown returned, and he glanced up, to the other’s face.

“I don’t like it... when you do that. Magick.” He muttered stiffly, trying to to start explaining. 

Stiles felt something within himself boil over.

“Well that’s too bad, Derek! This is part of who I am! Just because you don’t like it, that doesn't mean I’m going to hide myself! What about you? Are you going to hide who you are from me still? Even after... Lying to me even after I saw everything?! Don’t think that I forgot, Derek! I didn’t. I saw what you are! Under your human mask!”

“I can’t help what I am! I have no choice!” Derek roared suddenly, his voice echoing off the walls. Stiles was taken aback by the sudden outburst, having never seen Derek’s rage directed to him before. 

“What I am is not something I enjoy, or exploit happily, Stiles! That.... That magick you use! It almost got you _killed_! And what I am? It’s the only reason I was able to save you! Do you get that? You almost died! In flames, and pain, and humiliation at the hands of your own kingdom! They turned on you that quickly!” Derek tried to reign himself in, but all the words that festered within him spilled out. 

“I did it because I was worried about you damn it!” Stiles yelled back, his voice breaking with emotion as his fists clenched the wool blanket still resting over him. “I did it because I felt your pain, and I feared you would die! It was worth the risk, to me! If I lost you in that battle, I would have lost myself as well!” His words were true, and left the air clear and tense between them. Derek was lost for reply as he stared soundlessly at his prince. Sighing quietly, Derek crouched down, curling in on himself as he raked his hair back from his face. Just like that, he wanted to apologize for what he’d said. 

“Are you Vilkatis?” Stiles asked finally. His voice was silent, barely a whisper, but it was just as sharp as a knife, in Derek’s chest.

“...Do you know where we are?” Derek asked finally, shifting to fully sit on the floor, beside the makeshift bed. Stiles’ anger spiked again.

“Stop deflecting!” He demanded bitterly.

“I’m not. I’m answering your question, just... Do you know where we are?” He pressed; pained in his effort to force himself into talking about this. Rolling his eyes, Stiles took in a calming breath that had little effect.

“Obviously, I have no clue where we are.” He replied in a deadpan tone.

“We’re in the castle I grew up in, Stiles. My home.” Derek murmured, looking around suddenly as if speaking about it would resurrect the ghosts he feared lingered. Stiles was shocked, silent now as a feeling of dread poured through him like cold water.

“The Ruined Kingdom. The Castle Of Flames. The Charred Royalty...” Derek listed off some of the many names used to reference this place, each one more hated than the next.

“Vilkas.” Stiles supplied finally, receiving a quiet nod that he was correct. He was silent for a moment, and the prince’s face took on another look of dawning realization.

“Wait....” _Vilkas... Vilkatis..._ Stiles felt like an idiot for not making the connection before. Derek watched the thoughts on his young face.

“There’s a reason, Stiles. I can see you’ve realized. Say it. I want you to say it.” He urged. Derek didn’t know if he could voice it first. 

“The kingdom... of Vilkas... You were all Werewolves.” Stiles replied numbly. Nodding quietly, Derek felt some more tension build up in him.  

“For centuries, my family had ruled Vilkas. We were the last remaining line of natural born wolves. I was born Vilkatis, as was my father and mother, and their parents, and theirs before them. That is not to say that every person in Vilkas was a werewolf. We had humans here too. We lived in peace.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Stiles blurted out, looking hurt by the idea that Derek would keep something like this from him. Derek scoffed a little though.

“And why would I have expected you to believe me, Stiles? You didn’t know what a Vilkatis was until a few days ago, and even then, my entire family died for what we are... were. It’s not exactly a fact I’m keen on telling people after such a thing.” Feeling the harshness of those words, Derek was quiet another moment before he cleared his throat. He decided that perhaps he should tell Stiles the true reason he didn’t want the prince to know.

“I didn’t want to see fear in your eyes when you looked at me. I thought you would hate me; think me to be a monster. Like the people who saw me as you were burning at the stake; screaming in horror. They fled from me as if I were a demon. Because I am a beast, Stiles. You think now that you would have wanted to know sooner, but would you really? Could you guarantee that you would not have fled from me too? Call me selfish, but I would not risk losing you.”

With those words, Derek had left Stiles feeling wounded and raw, more so than any flame could dare achieve. It was a heavy burden, the prince knew that. He knew it quite well, in fact. He remembered with dread the beginning days of their relationship, and how he had lain in wake many nights feeling the guilt of keeping his witchcraft a secret from Derek. How, no matter what scenario he dreamt up in his head about revealing the truth, Derek would always scorn and curse him, look him in the eyes with disgust and hatred. To know that his knight had been feeling that apprehension every moment of every day too, it ripped at Stiles’ heart and for that, he could forgive. 

There was something else the warrior was not divulging though, just as there was a long harbored secret that the prince had yet to enlighten Derek to. Stiles let himself glance at his knight trying to sense with his empathy, only to find that his aura was still subdued, still _hiding_. If that wasn’t a clear indication of continued secrecy, the lingering remnants of guilt and anxiety prickling at his skin was all but the confirmation he needed.

“There’s something else... isn’t there? There’s more you’re not telling me.” The prince began softly. When Derek didn’t voice his reply, opting to instead focused his attention on Stiles’ legs, he sighed heavily and thought it only fair to bring everything to light. After this day, he wanted no more secrets between them.

“I can feel it, you know. When you lie to me.” Stiles couldn’t help but feel sheepish as he set his gaze intently on the wool blanket as well. He and Derek were probably staring at the same spot. It was odd, speaking about this. No one knew about his _gift_. It was something private between him and his mother. This would be the first time he would admit aloud to having this talent since the queen’s passing.

“I... have an ability. My mother said it was a gift from the Mother Goddess, but... if I am being completely honest, it has always felt more like a curse.” He chuckled dryly, seeking to perhaps rid the air of the overbearing tension. He knew Derek’s eyes were trained on him now, he could practically feel the man’s piercing glare making him feel self conscious. It had him fidgeting with the blanket incessantly. He sighed tiredly before continuing.

“I can feel what others are feeling sometimes; their emotions, their intentions, at times even their desires. It tickles my skin and seeps into my bones, heavy with sadness or buzzing with happiness. I can see their auras as if it were a living, moving thing. I can tune it out, sometimes, but with some people... With you, I can’t.” He stopped, reigning in his courage before he turned to give Derek a hardened look.

“I feel your hesitance and your guilt. What is it that stays your tongue?” Derek wilted slowly under Stiles gaze, curling forward and sliding a hand to rest quietly over his ankle. Holding onto Stiles for strength as he leaned in a little closer. His other hand was wrapped around his gut, as if to hold himself together.

“It’s... not an easy task, Stiles... To lay bare the sins of my life, when I’ve never spoken them aloud before. Not to anyone.” Derek squeezed gently, reassuring himself that he could do this. “Do you think it was an accident that razed my home to the ground like this? A... A spark on spilled oil or a fallen candle? Those are not things that could have reduced my home and family to ashes. I was left alive for the simple reason that I would spend the rest of my days with the guilt of this... All of this. Before you came along and changed everything, Stiles, I fully intended to fight myself to death in the Arena. I felt that would be the only way I could find forgiveness for what I’ve done.”

Stiles almost wanted to stop Derek, when he tasted the true sorrow that was permeating the air now. It was suffocating, what Derek kept locked away inside of himself. Stiles couldn’t understand how he held it in without imploding. He waited, though, for Derek to continue. Even when Derek sought to dissuade him with a begging glance. Stiles clenched his teeth back, holding his tongue. The most he allowed himself to spare was a sympathetic gaze. Derek sighed when he found no rescue from this story. 

Derek leaned back, rubbing a hand over his mouth quietly. His shoulders sagged, face falling a little. “Her name was Kate.” He rasped out, voice sounding as if he had a rock stuck in his throat. He swallowed a few times, before clearing it out roughly. He looked as if her name was bitter to his tongue. 

“She was... beautiful. Seductive. Impossible to look away from, and even more impossible to deny any wish.” He followed with a scoff, as if he found that to be folly now.

“She had everyone wrapped around her finger. My sister, my parents, me... Especially me... We found her in the forests surrounding our lands. She claimed to have no memories. Her head was injured, sliced open from a fall. We believed her. We didn't know she was an Argent, that she’d faked the fall, and cut her own head open. Not until it was too late, and I was in too deep with her. Not only was she an Argent, but she was a powerful... Very powerful Sorceress. We got comfortable, and I left her here, with my family. I was out on an errand. She had wanted the hide of a white elk, and I told her I would bring it to her. When I finally returned... The castle was in flames, and my family.... Their screams... They were the only thing louder than the fire crackling, and her sick laughter.”

Stiles was horrified as the story unfolded. He never could have imagined that it would have been like _this_. It made a sick sort of sense, though. Why Derek had always been so reluctant to touch past a certain point, his behavior regarding Stiles Magic. It made Stiles’ gut churn, thinking of how hard it must have been for Derek to keep quiet, to suffer some of the things... He had no words. Knowing about this woman, no, _demon_ , Stiles found himself filling with anger. That someone could do something so horrible to an entire people who were nothing but innocent. The prince knew little of the true behaviors of Werewolves, but he knew Derek and Derek was nothing but kind and strong. The warrior had a just sense of loyalty, and overlooking the secrecy, there was true trust.

Hearing the realities of Derek’s darkest burdens tore through Stiles. Of course he knew of the fire and he knew of Derek’s royal blood, but never before did he stop and think of how it happened. To know that an _Argent_ of all beings was the one to bring the kingdom to ruin, was startling. More troubling yet, was that apparently this woman was a Sorceress. A dark practitioner who abused the craft to meet their own selfish ends. It was a lot to take in, but he couldn’t stop himself from reaching out with the intent to comfort his knight. Stiles shifted from the fur and took Derek’s face in his hands.

“I need you to know, that wasn’t your fault.” The prince pleaded, only because it was true and it was so painfully apparent now that Derek blamed himself. He had been spending years burying himself in the illusion that the demise of his family was his sin to bear.

“That _woman_ was using you from the beginning. Everything she did or said was planned to entice and trick you. You must know that. It wasn’t your fault. Please tell me you know that.” Stiles implored gently. Even then, the sharp and cold prickling in his bones told him that Derek was still filled with a bitter self-loath. Stiles only sighed wearily, running his thumbs over the man’s stubble.

“I believe I told you once, that you’re not a bad person. I meant it then, and I mean it now.” The prince whispered softly, but Derek only shook his head and cast his gaze aside. He clenched his jaw tight before speaking.

“But I am, Stiles.” He replied harshly. The young prince sighed tiredly, knowing full well the stubborn nature of his knight, but he would not give up on his endeavors so easily.

“You aren’t and I’ll make it my purpose in life to prove it to you, if that is what it takes.” He smiled playfully, but Derek’s mood stayed tense. The man brought his hands up to the prince’s arms and pried them from their place on his cheeks. Stiles gave the warrior a confused look before Derek stood and set a fair distance between them.

“There is... There is something else I have been hiding from you.” He said, eyes fixed at the patches of rotting, wooden boards that still remained on the stone flooring. Stiles’ expression became even more perplexed. Derek knew what it was he needed to do. That telling Stiles of their bond was the right thing, but he couldn’t help the fear the gripped so tightly around his heart. The mere thought of losing his prince made him sick, but he wouldn’t dare force something so significant on Stiles. He deserved much more than that. Far more than anything Derek could offer. Steeling his resolve, he finally let himself speak.

“In werewolf customs, there are things we call mates. Being a mate is a lot like... being married. But Stronger. It's a bond that is broken only by death, for a Vilkatis. Though, the process of becoming one is initiated through a courtship. One of which...you started. The day you gave me this." Derek reached into his pocket and pulled out the old, torn and frayed handkerchief Stiles had given them during their first meeting behind the Crucible. Stiles stared at the fabric while his brain scrambled to understand the information Derek was supplying.

“You handing me this, fabric saturated with your scent, it commenced the courtship. Biologically, my body began to recognize you as my potential mate the moment I accepted this token.” Derek could sense the others speechlessness, looking up to Stiles' distant eyes. His heart sank, at that expression. 

“I... I’m sorry. Stiles. I never wanted to... To force you into something like this. To bind you to me, but already... You can feel it can’t you? Our bond is strong. You may have your empathy, but it’s more, between us. Stronger. That is because of me. Because of what I am. And if you want nothing more to do with me, you must tell me now, because I won’t be able to turn away from you after today. If you wanted to leave at any point, you could. It won't end things for you. You would find love again. For me, though... There will never be another. Ever again. I... am completely yours, Stiles.” This was his last chance to implore, to vie for his prince’s heart. 

“It is up to you if you will be mine. You can leave now, and I can let you, but if you wait any longer, I won’t be able to let you go.”

Derek stilled. His whole body seemed to freeze. His heart clenched tightly in his chest as his throat seized. He couldn’t swallow. He wanted so desperately to pull the words back. To keep the secrets locked up, but it was too late for that now. Stiles knew. He knew everything, and all Derek could do was wait and watch. To stare into those eyes now filled with a painful fear that stabbed deep into Derek’s gut. Those same eyes that once looked at Derek with such a beautiful promise. The slow morph of the banished prince’s usually perfect features slowly etched into a feature of apprehension with the realizations of the truth. That Derek was indeed a monster. That he had been lying to him from the moment they met and now he had practically locked Stiles into a bond that he had no knowledge of.

He couldn’t watch anymore. His mind had already supplied Stiles’ reaction. He had been thinking of this moment for days now. Of when he’d finally tell the boy the truth. Of how Stiles would cringe in a terror induced panic. How he’d flee and curse the day he’d met Derek. How he’d slowly fade into the distance and Derek would be forced to watch as the promise of a life he never thought he’d have nor deserved slipped through his fingers like smoke.

Derek turned, ignoring the intense thrumming of Stiles’ distressed heart. He couldn’t bare to watch. He didn’t know how he would survive after Stiles would leave. His feet were heavy, already headed towards the door of the only decent room to the ruined kingdom of his former home. It was a painful irony, for it to happen here. How Derek lost his former life all those years ago. Watched as his family burned because of a mistake that he carried on his shoulders that still slowly crushed him further into the ground. Now he’d lose everything here, again.

Derek was at the threshold of the door when he heard the rustle of the fur pelts and the quick steps of Stiles’ feet rushing towards him. As if in instinct, Derek shifted, feeling the sting in his gums as his canines sharpened. The rip of his claws protruding from his fingertips. The stretch and pull of his face molding into a glimmer of the beast that lingered just under the surface. He felt the soft touch of Stiles’ fingers wrapping gently around his wrist as he turned. He didn’t wait to see the prince’s reaction. The hurt, the pain, the feeling of rejection; of loss and loneliness erupted to the surface as he bellowed out a thunderous roar. Letting out everything he was feeling into his animalistic vocal chords. It was not the first time that cry had echoed throughout this valley. 

Stiles quickly reared back as if Derek’s skin was suddenly a painful agony, his face was painted with panic. His foot shuffled back as if to put distance between them, but he suddenly stilled and his face slowly gave way to a cautious demeanor. Derek was breathing fast and heavy. His eyes burned. Whether it be from the tears that were threatening to spill over or the constant glow of electric blue, he couldn’t quite discern. The wolf stared into Stiles’ eyes whose gaze met his tentatively. There was a moment where neither of them moved; Derek just inhaled and exhaled laboriously, trying to contain himself. Trying to reel in all the emotions he thought had been burned out of him the day that his family were consumed by flames. How could he have let this happen? To let some strange boy into his heart? Let him nestle there and promise things Derek truthfully knew he didn’t deserve? He just felt empty now. Waiting for an inevitable outcome.

Stiles did something he did not anticipate.

The prince swallowed heavily and took a careful step closer to Derek. His eyes never left the wolf’s. Slowly, his hand left his side; balled into a tight fist, his fingers relaxed and opened in a gracefully fluid movement. He reached out vigilantly, Derek’s tentative gaze following the motion until he felt’s Stiles’ hand on his cheek. The touch was tender and he felt something inside him warm as if it had previously been numb and frozen. His heart eased as if being caressed for the first time since the loss of his family. Derek shut his eyes and leaned into Stiles’ palm, seeking out the strange comfort that resonated from the teen’s flesh. His shoulders sank and his posture relaxed, almost as if he was collapsing in on himself. The overbearing sense of relief flooding his every fibre.

Stiles still hadn’t spoken, neither had Derek, but there were no need for words. The simple contact of Stiles stroking Derek’s wolfish features conveyed a message far more powerful than any vocalized commune. This was Stiles accepting him. Accepting Derek for who he truly was. There was not a single doubt in the werewolf’s mind. He could feel it through the bond. Through the gentle strokes of Stiles’ fingers brushing along the animalistic hairline of his face.

Derek didn’t think before he acted, he reached out and took Stiles into his arms, nestling his face into the prince’s neck. Seeking the warmth and affection of his _mate_. Stiles only smiled and slid his hand from Derek’s face to join the other that rested on the man’s shoulders, embracing him; resting his head next to Derek’s. A small smile curled his lips.

“I want your silly bond. There is no one else I would rather be with, Derek.” Stiles whispered. Derek pulled back, looking at the prince with adoring bewilderment. Stiles watched in fascination as his knight's face slowly faded back to its relatively human structure. Then, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to his lover’s mouth.

* * *

 

“Mmnn... Derek... Black Wolf...” Stiles muttered against his lips. The chaste kiss transformed into something deeper. Free and unspoken. Derek knew what Stiles wanted, and Stiles knew implicitly what Derek needed. Hooking his hands around Stiles thighs, Derek lifted the prince and carried him, who held onto him tightly the whole way, back across the room to the haphazardly made bed of pieced together animal pelts and a scratchy wool blanket.

It was clumsy, at best, the way Derek tried to carefully lower Stiles onto his back without breaking the kiss, but eventually they were there. The warrior perched over the younger male and gripped onto him with an intent. Stiles was glad that Derek didn’t pull away this time. Not as his hands pressed into his chest. He didn’t have to clutch at the fabric of his tunic to keep him from withdrawing. Stiles relished in the feel of firm muscle molded to the palms of his hands, sinking just a little under the pressure of his fingertips. Derek’s own hand threaded through Stiles hair. He was in no hurry to rush or to part. This time he would not protest or speak of the need to stop. 

“Please.” Stiles whispered again, brows furrowing as he pulled at the thick fabric separating his hands from flesh. Derek understood well enough, but he didn’t move to comply immediately. He stole another kiss or three, before leaning up enough to draw away the laces at his neck, and then shrugged off the black shroud of fabric. It found home on the stone floor next to them, a riddance they were both happy for, as Stiles finally got his hands on the heat of Derek’s flesh. His fingertips were slightly surprised to find the pleasant texture of coarse hair dusting his champions skin. Excitedly, Stiles smoothed his hands over the man’s muscles, groaning as he explored down to his ribs.

“Are you man, or Golem, Black Wolf? You feel as though you were shaped from molten rock.” He hissed out, cheeks colored red in self-consciousness. “I shall never remove my shirt in front of you now. Or else I fear I shall forever feel inferior.

“And deny me the sight of my most coveted treasure? Prince, you seek to torture me. You are in no way inferior, and I will have my memory of your flesh. Fair is fair.” Derek groused firmly. As if to prove it, he leaned up again, and his clawed fingers made quick work of the leather belt around Stiles waist. It joined Derek’s shirt, to the side of them. Followed almost immediately after by the unceremoniously discarded shirt that Derek had easily peeled from Stiles. It was dirty, singed and no longer the pristine white it had been when it had been donned the prior morning.

Undignified was the sound that Stiles made, squirming to attempt to cover himself. Derek would have none of it. Leaning in, their lips tangled, and Stiles forgot quickly what he’d been attempting. Derek’s belly was pressed against his, flesh to flesh. Just like their mouths. It was a thing of beauty, and it broke him from his train of thought, for the better. Derek was built like a bull, for the power he needed to win as he did in the Arena. Yet Stiles was not slight of form. His shoulders were broad, as was his chest. His ribs were not prominent enough to be counted, and when he inhaled deeply, the hardness of his abdomen pressed tight against the softness of his flesh. Pale flesh. When Derek broke the kiss anew, and cast his gaze down to take in the sight of his lover, his desire was replenished ten fold. Stiles was fair, his skin had rarely seen the sun, unlike Derek’s own. He was spotted in the most artful way, dark moles peppering him in all the places Derek’s mouth yearned to taste. Starting at his throat.

Gasping when he felt Derek’s lips at his neck, Stiles closed his eyes, and squirmed beneath him, his hands slowly feeling their way along every muscle in the Black Wolf’s sides. He had anticipated scars, feeling lines of evidence of the wounds he knew Derek had sustained in his life; had seen and felt him earn. There was nothing but smooth flesh curved into hills and valleys over bone and muscle. Stiles’ legs shifted apart invitingly and immediately Derek sought to fill the space. Moaning in almost harmony when their arousals found friction against each other, it was such a sinful touch, but Stiles had never felt more blissful. Derek’s mouth never stopped dancing across Stiles’ flesh. His neck looked mottled with the dark bruises that were already rising and it filled the warrior with a deep satisfaction. His claim was visible.

A firm grind of his hips downward against Stiles had Derek inhaling deeply and riding the high that the sharp tang of the prince’s arousal sent him on. There was no way he could stop now. Unless Stiles asked him to, but even then it would be of the greatest difficult. Luckily for him, stopping was the farthest thing from the young male’s mind. In fact, Stiles’ hands were at his breeches now, tugging with a quiet whine. It was a hard decision for Derek, but eventually he leaned up, and reached back, shucking off his boots without a backward glance. Their clatter was a dull thud on the ground and from where he knelt between Stiles bent and spread legs, Derek could see almost everything. The creamy expanse of flesh he so enjoyed the taste of, and the wanting sight of Stiles’ length, hard beneath the canvas fabric of his own pants.

Derek stared long, and hard enough that Stiles wiggled and suggestively lifted his hips just enough to get a rise out of the other. Groaning, Derek’s hand gripped at Stiles thigh, carefully focused long enough to bring his claws in. There was nothing he could do about the glow of his eyes, or the teeth that stretched his gums. His palm slid further down along the inside of Stiles thigh, grazing purposefully over the prince’s erection. Derek grinned at the whimper and twitch that earned him. At last his fingertips plucked open the laces that kept Stiles’ breeches on his lithe hips, and before the other could voice protest, Derek pulled his remaining garments half way off in a smooth pull. Of course Stiles squawked and flailed, trying to cover himself. Derek laughed as he restrained the young male’s legs, pulling off his burned clothing and depositing it carelessly. The happy smile on his lips was so foreign, Stiles actually stopped his half-hearted struggling. He swallowed hard instead, and leaned up quickly, lips pressing against the curve of Derek’s mouth. He wanted to taste the man’s happiness. It was such a rare sight, he knew it had to be delicious.

Indeed It was. Almost as delicious as the feeling of Derek’s rough-skinned palm returning to slide over his now bare length. Shuddering, and groaning against the kiss he’d started, Stiles quietly tilted his head back, eyes closed to fully enjoy the sensation of another’s hand on him. It took a few long moments before Stiles’ own shaky hand lowered to Derek’s laces, trembling as he unfastened them at a lazy pace. He’d only just pulled them open, when Derek caught him with his free hand, and lifted the limb to instead press a chaste kiss on his wrist, just above his pulse point, nipping in the same spot lightly. 

“I want to touch you.” Stiles ordered quietly, eyes dark with lust and heavy lidded in the dim light between them.

“You will. In time. I will have my fill of you first.” A sly twist of Derek’s wrist had Stiles cursing under his breath, arching backwards until his shoulderblades came to rest back on soft fur again. Derek watched the way Stiles’ muscles shifted in his taut stomach, groaning. He leaned in, pressing a wet kiss to a dark freckle beside the princes navel, grazing his teeth downwards to where he could bite lightly at the teen’s prominent hip bone. All the while, he swirled his thumb over the tip of Stiles member, spreading around the bead of clear, sticky liquid that had welled there a moment before. The scent of Stiles was at this point a literal drug to Derek who’s head swam with heat. 

“OH GODDESS!” Stiles blurted out when he felt something new and wet. Braced on his elbows suddenly, Stiles stared downward in awe, as Derek rubbed the flat of his tongue across the velvety flesh at the crown of his dick. He’d never thought Derek would touch him like _this_. He was though. Over and over again the warrior licked him, or suckled in just the right spot to make the muscles in Stiles’ legs tremor. 

“D-Derek... S-stop before I...Hnng.... Too much....” He panted out as he sank back down again, the heat coiled tight in his groin quickly becoming too much to contain.

Derek ignored him, and instead wrapped his warm lips into a tight seal around the top of Stiles’ shaft, tongue moving wetly. Stiles mouth fell open, soundless at first, before he gave a sharp gasp, stomach muscles lurching as his orgasm hit him mercilessly. Derek only groaned in response around him, and drank him down as he took in his lovers flavor. It was a short orgasm, Stiles panting quietly as he lay, boneless on the ground. Derek licked him silently through the glow of pleasure before crawling up Stiles’ body, trailing soft kisses along the way, until he claimed the prince’s mouth in a long, lazy tanglement of tongue and lips.

* * *

 

He didn’t know how long had passed, but at some point in the night, Stiles had ended up on his hands and knees, body played like a fine tuned instrument, responding to Derek’s every touch. His throat felt raw, hoarse from crying out in the endless pleasure the man seemed to take pride in causing him. 

Stiles gasped as his hands clawed uselessly at the sheets, trying to hitch his hips up higher in the air. Derek’s broad hands spanned the sides of his thighs, before moving upwards slowly, fingers flexing to press the teen’s smooth flesh and soft tissue firm enough to push the color back. The prince’s toes curled as one particularly embarrassing slurp came from behind him, accompanying the sucking motion of Dereks lips against his scrotum. Suddenly, his balls drew up, tight for a breathless moment. 

Dereks tongue was back to his hole, prodding and sweeping around the puckered rim. His hands traveled again. Stiles could feel the hard pads of his thumbs digging into either side of his swollen flesh, puckered and red from being eaten at. Derek’s flat human teeth nipped at the raised ridge of his muscle, before flicking the tip of his tongue into his tightness, digging deeper than before. Derek's lips, really his whole mouth, vibrated with the way he growled, and practically purred. His beast inside was satisfying himself on the musty taste of his mate’s hole, focused intently on preparing him and drooling more and more saliva into him. His spit slobbered in hot-- but rapidly cooling-- trails of moisture down the teen’s taint, to dry slowly against his balls. Also drooling was the head of Stiles’ cock, bobbing in the air as a clear line of viscous liquid welled up at the tip and overflowed, creating an invisible temporary connection between his dick and the blanket. There was already a small pool of pre gathered there, evidence of how long Derek had been hunched over, face buried in the prince’s cheeks.

“Please! Goddess... Derek please no more! I need you.... Please!” Stiles begged desperately. He’d already cum once, he didn’t want to embarrass himself by losing it again just from this sensational dirty play. Stiles had protested indignantly at first that Derek couldn’t possibly do _that_ to him, but a few sweeps of his lover’s tongue had stilled his protests and turned them into pleased sobs.

Derek was close to the end of his control, though. He needed to feel Stiles. To take him. To bury himself deep in the teen’s heat. His wolf howled for him to claim his mate, hackles raised. Mouth wet from his own saliva, Derek leaned back, a hand wiping some of the moisture away from his stubble. 

“Roll over.” He commanded gruffly. Stiles didn’t even bother to demand a ‘please’ like he normally would have. He rolled, and spread his legs open, blushing as the action made him feel somewhat like a wanton whore. He was wanton, for Derek alone though.

Derek, who was bent over to the side and reaching into his bag. He, who was a statue of a man, a champion above all others. Most of all, to Stiles, he was his own. Derek’s attention returned to him as he surfaced from his bag with a small glass phial with a transparent amber liquid inside of it. When Derek opened the bottle, he could smell that it was flaxseed oil. A good lubricant with many uses. Derek probably used it to condition his leathers, but it was also good for... the bedroom. Swallowing, cheeks flushing red, Stiles squirmed, watching heatedly as Derek slathered it over his cock.  

If the man was a beast, his length could be described similarly. It wasn’t long enough to concern Stiles for his own health, but it was thick, and intimidating with the way it now glistened in the low candle light. He was enraptured, for a moment, at the sight of Derek gliding his hand up and down his cock with careful strokes. Corked, and set aside, the bottle of oil was now forgotten, in favor of Dereks free hand slathering a liberal amount of the viscous liquid onto Stiles already soaked entrance. He felt grossly saturated but somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that he’d be glad for it.

Derek glanced up to Stiles in concern, hearing the prince’s heartbeat speed up when he shifted forward, the tip of his member pressing against Stiles’ tightness. Exhaling roughly, Derek leaned over and wrapped his arm around Stiles’ shoulders, pulling him into a deep kiss.

“Breathe. Relax. Remember to bear down as I enter. I don’t want to hurt you. I will not lie, this will not be comfortable for you at first.” Derek whispered quietly. His own face was a mask of wavering restraint. He felt stretched thin, and needing. 

Stiles’ long arms came up to clasp around Derek’s shoulders, holding onto him tightly for the strength he’d need. “It’s okay. I’m ready. I... I want you in me... Please.” He whispered, voice wrecked. “Make us one.”

Groaning, back shuddering at the tender words, Derek’s hand gripped the base of his cock more tightly, as if he feared he might blow. His other arm was strong as it braced under Stiles, against the ground.

Long moments passed, wearing on both their nerves as Derek pressed in. The tightness and the heat was incredible for the wolf, just as the stretch and pressure was consuming for Stiles. His eyes clenched shut, and Derek whined quietly, smelling his mates discomfort, and pain. 

“Breathe.” Derek begged quietly, reminding Stiles to gulp down some air. He shuddered, and his muscles flexed awkwardly around the intrusion. 

“S-stop.. just... Hold still.” Stiles pleaded, after the girth of Derek’s cockhead had passed through at last. Stiles was shaking, and Derek wasn’t sure he could move quite yet. The tightness inside of him was almost painful. To distract them both, Derek moved his hand from where it steadied his length, confident it would not slip free, to instead return to Stiles’ own arousal. Fingers slick with oil still, Derek’s grip moved easily over Stiles softened length. He had gone half-limp with the entry, but the warrior’s fingers were skilled, and insistent, slowly urging Stiles’ length to harden again. 

After a little while, it helped. Stiles focused on the pleasure of Derek’s hand on him, and slowly he relaxed. Derek looked to Stiles’ face for permission, and when he received that subtle nod, he pressed forward again, slowly, until he was in as deeply as he could go. Relief flooded them both, as Stiles pulled Derek into another desperate liplock.

“I’m okay.” He answered the unspoken question he could taste on Derek’s mouth. “I’m okay, you can move.” Stiles allowed. Sweat beaded on his flesh, the heat between them intense despite the cold rain outside. His wolf’s body was like a furnace over him, keeping him safe and warm and so _full_.

Derek moved, gladly, torso curled over Stiles as his face nestled against the teen’s chest. His hips wanted to jump and surge forward, twitched in desire to make rhythm with the pace of their racing hearts. He held back. Slow, slick, withdrawing to the tip and then sliding back in fully to the base. He felt like he could do this for hours, as long as he went slow, and careful. If he let loose, there was no knowing what could happen.

Minutes ticked by. Slowly, joining the sound of wet flesh sliding over wet flesh and the shifting of the furs beneath them, a surprised moan bubbled out of Stiles’ mouth, his fingertips sinking into Derek’s muscles a little more firmly. That throb of pleasure had surprised both of them when Stiles’ inner walls contracted tightly. Blinking a little, Derek leaned up and groaned at the sight below him. He didn’t have the words to express just what seeing Stiles like this did to him. Watching his body yield to him, taking him in and enjoying it...

Stiles lifted his hands above his head, fisting at the pelts that made a pillow beneath his head. His legs, in turn, lifted as well. They locked around Derek’s waist, squeezing and urging him on. Derek’s pace quickened. Not a lot, but enough that the tap of their flesh connecting at the end of every thrust was audible. Derek’s hands found purchase at Stiles hip, and at his neck, with his new position leaning up tall over Stiles’ stretched out body. The angle was good for them both. 

Stiles’ breath was coming in heavy pants now, broken by soft moans, and startled, high pitched grunts whenever Derek’s hips ground down against him, rutting into him. Through slitted eyes, he watched his mate. Derek was struggling, he could see. It was more than the strain of going slow, and being tender with Stiles though. Since they’d started, Derek had been fighting to keep himself mostly human, save for the uncontrollable glow of his electric blue eyes. 

“It’s alright.” Stiles blurted out quietly, watching Derek shudder and move. “I want all of you, Derek. You don’t have to hide that side from me. Nnnng...” His eyelids fluttered for a moment as he tried to calm himself a bit. “It doesn’t scare me.” Derek stopped, staring at Stiles in disbelief. His own broad chest was heaving silently.

“Are... Are you sure? I don’t want you to...”

“I meant what I said, Derek. Please. I want all of you. After today, there should be nothing between us separate anymore.” Stiles interjected softly. Derek exhaled quickly, an indescribable expression crossing his face as he leaned over, kissing Stiles deeply, tasting his mouth, his unspoken love, before leaning back up. As his hips began to move again, the shift took over. Eyes closed, Derek’s face changed to it’s beastly counterpart, and Stiles watched calmly. When Derek looked to him again, he had expected Stiles’ eyes to be closed, or cast aside, but instead there was a smile on his prince’s lips, sweet, and knowing. Stiles reached up, unthinkably pulling Derek in for another kiss.

“Now make love to me.” He urged roughly, letting his need break at his voice.

Oh how that made Derek want to howl with joy and triumph. 

Both of his strong arms worked there way around Stiles, clutching the prince’s body to his as he moved with renewed passion. Tender as he was when they’d begun, Derek’s thrusts had a soft power behind them as his length dove into Stiles’ depths over and over again. Slick sounds of their coupling filled the air, their voices woven together in sounds of pleasure as they gave way to abandon. Derek couldn’t hold back. Not with Stiles’ permission to be himself in their most intimate of times.  

“Derek... Hnng... gah... F..Puh... Please... So... I’m so close.... I want...” Stiles was babbling, most of his words incoherent. 

“Do it.” Derek hissed into his ear, though, and eagerly, Stiles’ hand wriggled between their bodies, wrapping around his own length. He barely had to touch himself, Derek’s hips rocking himself into his own grasp. 

“Nngaah! D-Derek! Oh... Goddess... I love you...” Stiles blurted out in his passioned ramblings, voice strained and tight as his muscles slowly seized, trembling as he spasmed, heat exploding from his as he came, hard. 

Derek couldn’t respond. He was past words, his chest tight from what Stiles had just uttered, and overcome by the grip of Stiles muscles milking at his cock. He was stringing together curses in his head, feeling for the first time the base of his length swelling, knot beginning to form. 

At first, the sensation was alarming. He knew well enough about Vilkatis males and their penchant to knot, but it had never happened to him before. This was the first time he was feeling the swelling of his cock. However, that didn't quell the irrefutable desire, being supplied from deep within himself, to spear it deep into Stiles' body, locking them together. It was a need that he didn't understand, but overwhelming in its demand. His instincts undeniable.

Roaring blindly into Stiles flesh where his face was hidden now, Derek shoved himself in, as deep as he could. Stiles was stunned, by the sudden added stretch, gasping a little and squirming despite the boneless feeling in his limbs when the stretch didn’t stop. Seconds ticked by, Derek’s body dangerously tight and still over top of Stiles as his knot fixed into place, tying them together so that his seed could flood his mate’s body, and fill him to an obscene level. Eventually, Stiles stilled, focused instead on breathing, and rubbing his hands over Derek’s back. Slowly, the warrior relaxed, exhaling and shuddering immediately when he finally started to breathe again. 

Stiles quietly soothed his mate, kissing whatever flesh he could reach. “Derek.... Derek...” He murmured softly over and over again. He couldn’t explain what had just happened, but honestly, he didn’t really care. He was tied with his mate, breeded, thoroughly de-virginized, and happy.


	8. Chapter 8

Stiles awoke to Derek’s breath ghosting over his neck and the feel of strong arms holding him lazily. He stayed there like that, enjoying the private, blissful moment of just being with his knight. No, Derek was more than that to him now. They were _mates._ Their bond was solidified and completed through their acts of passion the night before. The happenings of the event roused a goofy grin that took place on the prince’s lips.

Shifting carefully and quietly, as best he could, he oriented himself in accordance to Derek, their faces only inches apart. Derek grumbled slightly in his sleep, tightening his hold on Stiles momentarily before falling back into his slumber. The prince stifled a chuckle and took in the sight of his warrior.

He looked peaceful, and so young whilst sleeping. His face wasn’t taut or restrained. No heavy burden on his features. His lips were slack and slightly parted while his face hung open without concern. Even the deep lines around his eyes were incredibly softer like this. He no longer felt the urge to reach up and smooth away the crease between his eyebrows. His hair was disheveled and in complete disarray. He was perfect, Stiles thought. 

Carefully, he lifted a hand, softly tracing the warrior’s jawline, feeling the rough prickles of his stubble. Derek shifted, mumbling incoherently for a second time before placating his movements. Stiles’ grin only grew wider. Derek was impossibly adorable. Not an adjective the prince usually associated with the infamous Black Wolf, but he couldn’t help his mind from supplying the word while taking in Derek’s sleepy protests or his languid, easy breathing that sometimes tapered off into a lazy growl.

It was then, the prince realized, that his eyes were fixed on the warrior’s supple mouth. Try as he might, he just couldn’t stifle the urge to touch. He brought up his hand again, fingers ghosting over those slender, pink lips before tracing them gently. Derek’s mouth twitched, another small growl working its way out of his throat. Stiles couldn’t help but giggle at the sound, quickly biting his lip in an effort to silence his amusement. Derek stilled, rubbing his face into the lump of furs they bundled up to use as pillows; yet again he dozed off. Stiles let his bottom lip slide from his teeth with a small smile.

Yes indeed, his wolf was definitely adorable. So adorable in fact, the prince couldn’t help wanting to kiss him, despite the age old saying ‘let sleeping wolves lie’. He was never good with restraint, so before he could think better of it, he filled the small space between them and pressed his lips against Derek’s. It was a simple peck and it earned him a soft, almost dog-like whine from the warrior, as if Stiles had just taunted him with a treat that he stole back at the last second. The sound of it was ridiculous. Never before had Stiles thought he could melt from such a simple noise. The existence of it should be banned. Nay, Derek should be exiled for being so perfect in every which way Stiles could fathom. 

However, he was a fair and noble prince, so he leaned in again, this time rubbing his lips against his mate’s before kissing him lightly. Pulling back quickly, he watched in surprise as Derek’s sleeping face shifted closer as if to chase his mouth. The prince donned a knowing smirk; an idea swirled in his mind.

Once again, Stiles leaned in, pressing two quick kisses to Derek’s lips. Only this time, when he moved to pull away, Derek’s hold tightened around him again, chasing his face to press their lips together. Stiles smiled, kissing back lazily, mouth warm and coaxing. Then Derek licked across the prince’s lips making his breath catch; causing them to part easily. He closed his eyes as their tongues mingled languidly in a messy kiss that elicited a little, needy moan. Derek pulled back slowly, catching the prince’s bottom lip between his teeth playfully, feeling the flesh slide through his incisors. Stiles basked in that moment leisurely, his kiss-swollen lips slowly giving way to a happy grin. He opened his eyes to see Derek staring back at him, wearing a smirk of his own.

“Good morning.” Stiles whispered softly, resting his hands on his warrior’s chest. Derek’s grin grew a little wider.

“Good morning.” He replied, leaning in for another quick kiss. “How are you feeling? Are you sore?” He inquired gently while pulling Stiles in closer so their chests were flush against each other. The prince shook his head slightly. 

“It feels a little funny, obviously, maybe a little tender but it’s not bothersome.” He replied nonchalantly. Tender was a bit of an understatement perhaps, but the moment was so perfect that he didn’t want to ruin it with worrying him. Derek ran a hand down Stiles’ back tenderly, leaning in and brushing his nose along the prince’s hairline, inhaling deeply before placing a kiss to his forehead.

“You smell... You smell amazing. Perfect. You smell like us.” He said almost drunkenly. Stiles quirked an eyebrow. 

“Do you not know how odd that sounds?” Though, it was voiced playfully. Derek only huffed out an amused laugh, face coming level with Stiles’. He shrugged before setting his gaze to his prince.

“It’s a good smell, there’s no need to fret.” He quipped facetiously. It was almost an offended grumble. Stiles scoffed in mock offense.

“I’m not _fretting_. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but us _simple_ humans don’t sniff each other. Unlike _some_ creatures I know.” He replied in jest. Derek growled playfully, rolling them over so he was on top of Stiles, trapping his body beneath him. The prince yelped, attempting to flail, but Derek had caught his wrists and pinned them down, leaning in to nip at his mate’s neck.

“Oh really? And how many other _creatures_ do you know?” He said back haughtily. Stiles sniggered slightly but it broke off into a strangled groan at the feel of Derek’s tongue lapping at the newly marked flesh.

“I can think of at least one right now. Of which is thoroughly distracting me.” Derek laughed at the prince’s struggled retort, leaning back to set his sights upon Stiles below him. He cupped the prince’s jaw, running his thumb across his pale cheek before leaning down to mingle their lips again. Stiles’ arms reached up and circled around Derek’s neck, one hand veering off to run through the thick locks of his messy hair. They enjoyed one another’s mouths before Derek reluctantly broke the kiss, pulling back only slightly and panting softly.

“I want to wake up to you, like this, for the rest of my life.” He said, brushing his lips against Stiles’ smile.

“I believe that has already been arranged.” He pointed out smartly, before moving up to taste Derek’s lips yet again. Stiles’ hands splayed over Derek’s chest, tips trailing down enticingly, feeling the muscles twitch and tense under his feather-light touch. When he felt the thick, tousled hair just above Derek’s groin, Stiles stilled his hand.

Last night’s occurrence played through his thoughts. The sensation of Derek’s cock thrusting into him with abandon, to suddenly have been speared by an overwhelming thickness. His warrior had stayed buried within him, distracting Stiles with sloppy kisses and caresses. The prince was perceptive, and indeed he knew that something was amidst, however, he would not ruin their post-coital bliss with questions he innately knew were sensitive.

Derek sensed his hesitance and his inquisitions, leaning back to peer into Stiles’ perplexed eyes.

“Something bothers you?” He asked. Stiles clenched the hand that rested against Derek’s pelvis, biting his lip and reluctantly met his warrior’s gaze.

“Last night, at the end of... when we were making love. Something happened that I have yet to understand. There was a sudden intrusion of...” He trailed off in attempt to find the right words, averting his eyes and swallowing the lump in his throat. He couldn’t help but feel like the matter at hand was extremely personal and could be taken in a negativeness if not handled with tact. Although, Stiles’ manners were more often subdued by his insatiable curiosity, rendering him outspoken and bold whereas some of his questions may seem inappropriate and ill-mannered.

“The base of your shaft seemed bigger than the rest of you.” He blurted out quickly, face blossoming red with embarrassment. Derek froze, stunned and at a loss for words himself. He knew that Stiles would notice, but he was still caught off guard at the abrupt blatancy of his statement. Now it was Derek’s turn to look away sheepishly, unsure of how to voice the particulars of the matter. How does one explain to a human the werewolf-phenomena that is knotting?

Derek cleared his throat, eyes skitting throughout the the room in an obvious intent to avoid the subject at hand, but he knew that once Stiles had latched onto something, it was a futile notion to believe that he would just as soon drop it. Stiles squirmed beneath him, becoming ever more impatient with every passing second. Derek rolled off him, much to Stiles’ dismay, landing on his side. Stiles oriented himself in accordance to his warrior, resting his hand on Derek’s, waiting for an answer.

“It’s called a knot.” Derek stated vigilantly. Stiles didn’t quite follow, opting to remain silent and wait for a further explanation. Derek knew this was awkward, to say the least, but Stiles was his mate now, and the development of his knot was something they’d both have to get used to.

“It’s a Vilkatis thing. The base of my length swells when I am on the verge of release. Normally, it’s purpose is to ensure insemination. In other words, it locks us into place with the intentions of breeding.” Stiles looked momentarily confused before mortification befell his face, then slowly his features began to etch into intrigue.

“So... you wish for me to carry your... puppies?” The prince remarked slyly, indication of his playful amusement. Derek couldn’t help but growl, thick and deep at the thought, some biological imperative fueling his instincts to mate and produce pups of his own. Thinking about Stiles carrying his children had his cock quickly hardening with need.

“Yes.” He groaned out, turning to once again cover Stiles’ body with his own, easily finding his place between the prince’s legs. Stiles yelped, clearly caught off guard yet again with the warrior’s sudden desire.

“Woah! Woah! Last I checked, carrying children was the duty of a woman. If you haven’t noticed by now, I am most certainly not a lady.” Derek craned over Stiles’ body, licking a stripe up from his clavicle to his throat. A firm hand found purchase on Stiles’ already throbbing erection. Derek palmed at the tender flesh, now hard and flushed a pretty red.

“I am well aware of your gender.” He supplied, sucking and nipping up the length of the prince’s throat as if it was made from the most delectable of treats. Before he could stop himself, Stiles was a whimpering mess, hands scrambling to touch at his warrior, but as quickly as Derek started, he stopped; pulling back to fix Stiles with a withering glare. The prince pouted, a whine following soon after.

“Do you...not like it? I can’t promise that I can stop it from happening, but I could...try.” Though it was meant to be a gesture of convenience, it was said with uncertainty and much disdain. It was obvious that Derek most definitely wanted to do the _opposite_ of his suggestion.

The prince quickly mulled it over, mind already settled with his decision. However, he made it a point to give the rouse of a deep ponder, drawing out his answer if only to get a rise out of his warrior. It must have only been but a minute before Derek had visibly grown restless, serious expression faltering into something more anxious. 

“Hmmm...” The prince drawled out. “I will concede, last night was the most incredible experience I have ever had. Your...knot? It was a surprise, but I...” He turned to Derek, looked up at him through his eyelashes shyly.

“I liked it. I liked the sensation of you filling me.” It was quick, the smirk that graced Derek’s features as his eyes sparked that brilliant blue. Stiles could still hardly believe that his warrior was this astonishing creature. Not beast, but not quite man, either, and now they were bound for eternity in a bond that Stiles felt like a lock of silk, holding them together in a space of warmth and comfort.

Derek’s quirked lips were quickly matched by Stiles’ before he surged up to taste his warrior’s mouth. It was devastating and frantic, Derek’s hunger seeping through their link, making his body feel hot and deprived, like his whole being was starved and only Derek could quench its desire.

It only took but a moment before Derek’s fangs made themselves known. Stiles felt their piercing presence with his tongue, running it over the sharpest points as Derek groaned into his mouth.

“I’m going to give it to you over and over again.” Derek growled through their kisses as he bucked his hips against Stiles’. “I want to feel you around my knot. I want to fill you with my seed.”

Stiles couldn’t help but moan at the filthy promises his warrior was uttering, low and guttural. The sounds of which, only served to make the prince desperate, keening for Derek’s touch.

“Yes. _Please_. I need it. I need _you._ ” He begged. Derek sensed the impatience of his prince, and in one swift motion, he pulled back from Stiles, gripped his hips and flipped him over. For a fleeting moment, the air was saturated with trepidation, the prince already finding a comfortable perch on his hands and knees. He thought that perhaps Derek was going to lick at him again, much like he had done the night prior. Instead the aforementioned man was reaching over to claim the vial of silky liquid he had used hours before. His fingers were quick and eager, ripping at the cork carelessly and frantically spreading the contents into his hand.

Capping the bottle, he gently set it aside, the movement a contrast to his previous impatience. He brought his hand to his dick, fisting the long length of his cock until it was glossy and slick. He leaned over Stiles, his hand still working itself on his daunting member, all the while trailing kisses up the prince’s back until his lips were inches from Stiles’ ear; hot breath ghosting over his skin.

“You look beautiful like this. On your knees, spread open for me. I want to take you like this.” He whispered gruffly. Stiles’ body shuddered against his will, veins pulsing with a fiery desire, the words lashing at his flesh like a physical promise. Then he felt Derek’s fingers circling his hole, swiping over his pucker while his tongue licked at the lobe of his ear, teeth soon catching it between them. It was different than their first time. Derek’s restraint was all but absent, the lust for his mate; the instinct to breed, to knot, more prevalent than before. The thought of Stiles’ tight heat enveloping his cock was too much to ignore.

Thick fingers buried themselves in Stiles entrance, grating across the tender lining of his hole. His breath caught, shattering itself into a heady moan before his let his head drop while his limbs shook numbly. His back bowed gracefully, as he jut his ass out, presenting it unabashedly. It wasn’t long before Derek had prepared him, their copulating from before still had Stiles relatively pliant, his muscles at ease where they were firm and rigid before. The soreness and ache in his hips were momentarily forgotten. He’d be sore later, but in that moment, his need dominated his mind.

“Do you like this? Do you like feeling me fucking you with my hand?” Derek asked, voice rough, sounding almost as wrecked as Stiles’.

“Yes!” He cried out, not caring how needy he sounded or how easily he was giving in. He couldn’t help it. He loved the way Derek made him feel. The broad girth of his fingers spearing into him at an agonizingly slow pace, deep and relentless. Dragging along the soft skin of his inside, brushing at his prostate like a tease, wrecking him to the point of beseeching.

Derek’s answer was that rumbling, throaty sound. He didn’t need to turn around to know that his warrior’s face was already shifted, his eyes burning bright like icy-fire. His fangs still glinting in the morning light. That Derek was the beast he wanted him to be; _needed him to be._

Stiles rocked back onto Derek’s fingers, breathing heavy and gasping loud, trying as best he could to fill himself with whatever his warrior would give him. Derek’s free hand caught his hip, a low rumbling sound told him that his action was well-received. He felt the sharp prickles of claws slightly digging into his pelvis, and he knew that most of Derek’s control was making sure that the other hand was remaining unchanged. He wanted to see, he wanted to know if his warrior was satisfied. Stiles looked over his shoulder, and the sight he was met with left him breathless.

Derek was indeed shifted, but his eyes were trained on where his fingers were digging into Stiles’ hole. His chest was heaving and his cock was hard, pointing long and attentive, drooling with pre like the poor thing was weeping with want. Derek himself was completely wrecked, if the pained expression on his face was of any indication-- the sheer burning desire in his glowing gaze. That knowledge alone gave confidence to Stiles’ words.

“I want you inside me. Please, Derek, _please!_ ” It was yelled, far louder than it needed to be and it was the whiniest beg he’d ever uttered. He should feel ashamed, but he only felt starved. Even with Derek’s fingers stretching him open, it just wasn’t enough. This hunger inside of him would only be fulfilled when his warrior was seated deep within him, stretching him wider, ruining him from the inside out. Derek seemed to agree, for his fingers slipped from his entrance.

Derek grabbed at the base of his cock, harder than steel and heavy with need, lining it up with Stiles’ puckered hole. It was already inflamed, and the angriest hue of red Derek had ever beheld. As the crown of his cock perched up against it, testing its give, he couldn’t help but groan as he felt the welcoming heat of Stiles’ entrance, teasing him as it squeezed around his head only to push him back out. Stiles moaned, even just the slightest sensation of Derek’s dick prodding at him had his own cock twitching and his hands digging into the pelts below them. Derek couldn’t help himself, loving the way his mate’s hole was begging for him, so he rubbed the bead of pre that was leaking from his cock up and down the crease of his prince’s perky ass, tracing the rim of Stiles’ hole before finally pushing in.

The moment his cock breached Stiles’ rim, he couldn’t help but let his head fall back and groan. Stiles was ridiculously tight, despite having just prepared him. The intense heat was another matter altogether. Nothing felt better than Stiles’ hole squeezing around his dick, soft yet firm and incredibly slick. The sound of Stiles moaning made Derek’s hips twitch forward, sinking further and further until he was completely mounted; his hips flush against Stiles’ supple flesh. Only a moment passed before he pulled back and slammed himself back in.

This mating was different still, from the one the night before, different from their first experience with each other’s bodies. This time, while just as desperate, felt even more tender. More comfortable. There was no guessing between them about what the other needed. Stiles had never felt as if someone had known him so intimately and completely. Derek, meanwhile, could anticipate the curves and expanses of Stiles flesh under his shifting hands. 

Something about their position, as well, sang to Derek’s Wolf. It played to his instinct to mount and breed. Stiles’ neck stretched out for him submissively, his moans of pleasure keening against the stone walls around them. One hand remained fastened at Stiles’ hips to guide him back and forth into the lazily paced thrusts of his own, Derek slid his other palm over the prince’s spine. He could just barely feel the knobs of his vertebrae through Stiles’ taut skin. Another reason this position was one that abated his animal needs. Stiles was completely vulnerable to him. 

Derek curled his abdomen forward a bit, covering Stiles’ body with his own, slipping his hand around to Stiles’ chest then further up until he hooked his digits around his shoulder for even more leverage. Stiles rocked back, meeting his thrusts with a starved enthusiasm, whimpering and begging incoherently for more.

Their conversation was weighing on Derek heavily though, and only fueled his desire more. Stiles liked the things about him that made him inhuman. He liked his knot, and the implication behind it.

He could feel his wolf possessing him. It was like he was the animal, panting, bristling with virility. He could hear it’s rumbling growl in his chest; it’s thoughts in his head.

_Breed. Mate him. Pups. Give him. Pups. Breed him._

Derek let out a strangled groan from deep in his throat. He had one goal in his gut and veins. It wasn’t very long before his hips quickened of their own accord, becoming more frantic with each thrust. Stiles’ voice grew louder, and more heady in his cries of pleasure. Stiles felt so utterly possessed by Derek. He felt like he was his alone and for the first time Stiles knew that was all he’d ever craved in life-- to belong to someone completely.

For all Derek’s intensity as he fucked into Stiles, his knot burgeoning and ramming against Stiles stretched orifice, he was calculated and caring with every move. It came as a surprise, almost, when Derek snarled, and snapped his hips one more time, roughly as to plant his bulbous shaft all the way into Stiles. It knocked the air from the prince’s lungs, as he knelt there, trembling. His toes curled, mouth gaping open in a silent cry. The sudden stretch, and pressure of being so full left him feeling light headed. 

He only stalled for a moment, using his grip on Stiles’ to pull him up from his hands until he’s flush against Derek’s chest. Their bodies sticky and hot with sweat. The lack of movement made Stiles desperate for friction, until Derek began rutting into him again. His knot kept them tied together, unable to pull out and thrust back into him as ruthlessly as he had just been. However, the short, franting, buck of his hips had his knot grating over Stiles' prostate relentlessly. He whimpered, low and long, the sensation driving him insane, melting his mind and lighting fire to his veins.

Derek spread his cheeks apart, palming at the flesh almost painfully, trying to desperately spear himself deeper into Stiles’ body. He couldn’t quite tear his gaze from Stiles’ neck. The flesh where his shoulder met his neck was exposed to him invitingly and every instinct he had demanded to sink his fangs into it. He felt his body give in. Stiles was making the most delectable sounds and he just let it happen. With Stiles' hole, warm and clenching around him, he couldn’t resist. He bit down onto Stiles’ shoulder and listened as he cried out, feeling the prince’s body go limp in his arms, completely submitting. 

It was only a seconds later that Stiles felt Derek seize behind him, voicing a loud, breathy groan; his cock throbbing and twitching inside him to suddenly feel a rush of warm and thick gush of liquid as Derek's knot pulsed within him. He felt every surge of Derek's seed slowly filling him until his stomach felt heavy and hot.

Suddenly, Derek was carefully moving them to their sides, his arms wrapping around Stiles’ body to hold him tightly, stroking over his torso, and length. His stubbled jaw nestled against the back of his neck, lapping at the bite with his tongue. Stiles felt Derek’s hand wrap tightly around his throbbing cock, and in three short strokes, Stiles poured out his release over Derek’s fist. For a long time, they laid there, curled together as Derek’s potent orgasm filled Stiles once more, whispered nothings passed between them.

* * *

 

“I don’t know, Derek. It’s a bit big, don’t you think?” Stiles asked, pinching the large, black shirt away from his skin. It was indeed impossibly too big for the prince’s lithe frame, but Derek had been more than insistent he wear _his_ clothing. It hung loosely to one side, revealing his shoulder slightly. Even the sleeves were a little too long, covering his fingers. The dark fabric was a stark contrast from his fair skin, making him look even more pale. Not that Stiles had any other choice seeing as how his own clothing were not only charred, but ripped to shreds by his newly mated Werewolf-husband. Or was it Werewolf-fiancé? Werewolf-Soul Mate? Stiles was...not entirely sure of the appropriate status, if he was being quite honest.

Derek distracted him from his thoughts as he pressed his chest to the prince’s back, broad hands fanning out across Stiles’ hips possessively. It didn’t take but a moment before Stiles was leaning into the embrace, nestling himself comfortably against Derek’s body. They fit together perfectly like two halves of a cloven stone. The wolf kissed and licked at the bitten flesh around Stiles’ neck, a pleased growl rumbling through his chest at the sight of his claim mark. He grinned smugly as the touch brought out a shuddering breath from his mate.

“I think its perfect.” He whispered against Stiles’ skin. The prince swallowed heavily, his own hands coming to rest over Derek’s, lacing them together loosely.

“You clearly don’t know anything about proper attire etiquette. This is at least two sizes too big.” He said in a trembling voice. Derek’s response was a long, sucking kiss to his lovers pulse point.

“I like seeing you in my clothes. It makes you smell much of me.” Stiles could only laugh, quickly turning around to face his knight, hooking his arms around his neck. Derek’s hands were firm in their renewed hold of Stiles’ hips.

“I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted, Black Wolf.” Derek rolled his eyes at the nickname. “You either think me to be smelly, or you’re being impossibly covetous.” Derek shrugged as if the implication was of no significance.

“And if I am? What will you do, Prince?” He said smirking, leaning in closer to Stiles’ lips. Stiles had sought to chase them, but Derek pulled back enough so they would brush chastly. The prince pouted, but it slowly gave way to a grin.

“I... would say that I like it. As odd as that may be.” He uttered teasingly, faltering as he thought for a second. Derek’s smirk morphed into a genuine smile at the sound of those familiar words.

“Now kiss me before I part from this room nude for any and all to see.” The prince demanded. Derek’s eyes flashed blue at the threat. The thought of anyone seeing his mate’s flesh roused a territorial jealousy from within him. He growled before tilting his head slightly, ravishing Stiles’ mouth in an kiss meant to claim and assert his dominance, one hand sliding from slender hips to squeeze the prince’s plump bottom. Stiles yelped helplessly as his skin blushed, but couldn’t find the will to break away from his knight’s tantalizing lips. He had only just put his clothes on, but he felt as though they would be on the floor again soon enough.

* * *

  

Stiles was indeed curious of Derek’s homeland, and although most of the castle was a crumbling mess of ash and toppled stone, the surrounding forests were bright and thriving with life. The allure of the woods called to both of them, if not for entirely different reasons. Derek had always felt at ease in the forests, the smells of soil and leaves. The feel of the wind and the sounds of the creatures stirring around him. He was indeed a beast in his own right, taking comfort in the natural surroundings of the lands.

Stiles, on the other hands, was a denizen of the craft. He felt in tune with the life of the forests. The silent thrums of magick that all things exude caressed at his skin and called his spirit. The plants and animals were drawn to him, their auras seeking him out like moths to a flame. The calmness it brought him, to feel the energies balance themselves in accordance to himself, always beckoned. It was an easy inquiry to accept once Stiles had asked Derek to show him his people's land.

They walked at a leisurely pace. Stiles stopped to pick random herbs and flowers that Derek was more than convinced were nothing but mere weeds. The suggestion made Stiles scoff, filling the satchel Derek had used the night they had fled the kingdom.

At some point, Stiles had laced their fingers together, smiling to himself as Derek tensed before gripping back to his prince like a lifeline. The connection between them surged bright with the simple touch, the both of them taking solace in the gentle intensity of it.

They spoke of many things. Mostly Stiles asked of the kingdom’s older days. The histories and cultures, all of which Derek answered with poise and accuracy denoting the noble which he truly was. The knowledge Stiles was receiving had him smiling and thirsting to know more. The fondness in Derek’s heart only grew with Stiles’ excited enthusiasm. Once, Derek had sworn that the prince would have scorned and wrinkled his face in disgust with the true happenings of the Vilkatis, but he couldn’t have been more wrong. Stiles’ eyes were bright, his face open and lively, consuming any and all information he could with awe and fueling his curiosity even more. Even to the point where he was asking questions which Derek could only answer with a frown-framed ‘I don’t know’.

When the bag was full and many hours had passed, Stiles had grown quiet, subtly swinging their joined hands. He was still smiling, content in his walk of Derek’s former homeland, but the warrior knew that something was weighing heavy on his mate’s mind.

“What troubles you?” He asked gently. Stiles turned to face him, their pace never faltering, regarding Derek with a perplexed look.

“Huh?” He asked, almost tripping over a patch of thick roots, before Derek steadied him. Stiles laughed, clearly used to his own clumsiness, but Derek was unrelenting in his inquisition. Stiles sighed, knowing that his warrior was just as persistent as he. He hadn’t even had to reiterate his question. Derek’s firm gaze spoke it for him. 

“It’s nothing, really. My mother fancied the outdoors, is all.” He didn’t elaborate despite Derek’s own miniscule curiosity. He knew better than to pry the answers of ones darkened past. Instead, he chose to speak on memories he had long since abandoned. 

“My family and I, we would run through these woods during full moons. Laura, my sister, she was the swiftest. She made it a point to best me, always getting to any spot we had set to race towards first. She never missed a chance to remind me that her speed was of a higher calibre than my own. Even if she would ruffle my hair after and let me lead in hunts.” It was difficult to speak of his former life, even as he said it, he wouldn’t let his gaze meet Stiles’. He wondered what it would be like if they were still alive; if Stiles would have joined them on their runs. If he would have waited for him at their castle home and joined them in the howling.

He knew, from somewhere deep in his mind, that his family would have taken to the prince. They were a happy people, and Stiles had a way with himself that lured in anyone around him. Though his prince would sooner jest or deflect, he couldn’t muffle the brightness of his kind heart. Derek knew his mother would have had much too fun with their courtship, preparing Stiles in lascivious outfits and setting the surrounding forest for their first chase. It was a painful thought, to know his family would never meet his mate. They would have loved him.

Stiles must have sensed his melancholy, for he bumped his shoulder into Derek’s, pulling the warrior’s attention. He gave a small smile, sweet and knowing-- one that Derek was more than grateful for, returning the gesture with a grin of his own.

“So you are like a dog? No wait-- Wolf? You actually like to run and chase things?” He asked seriously, if not slightly lighthearted. Derek’s face turned sour, he should have known this was coming. The prince was probably full of ridiculous ideas of the correlation between Vilkatis and wolves. Before he could put an end to those trivial notions, Stiles came to a stop, looking around himself before bending down to grab a twig. The grin on his face turned dangerous and playful as he idly moved the stick through his fingers.

“So if I were to throw this, would you fetch it?” Derek scowled, clearly unamused, though he’d be lying if he denied that some part of him was excited about the idea of retrieving something Stiles would throw. Though he would refute that any such imperative exists, lest his prince forever throw things with the intention of getting Derek to fetch it for him. The thought made him shudder.

“You’re the most insufferable person I’ve ever met.” Derek griped, but he couldn’t help but smirk. Stiles just shrugged, dropping the offending twig and continued on their stroll.

“Perhaps, but I like to think you’re quite taken with me.” The prince replied smugly. Derek rolled his eyes, but his grin still remained, squeezing Stiles’ hand lightly.

He stopped a few more times to pluck various plants from the earth-- most of which Derek was still insistent were nothing more than weeds. Stiles was fascinated by the woods, while Derek was all too happy to show them. He loved the way Stiles would lay his hand on the trees and watch as they thrummed with new vigor; leaves renewed into vibrance. Or the way he would place his fingers into the soil and will the flowers to regrow once he had picked them. Magick still made him feel uneasy, but watching Stiles breathe out life in every exhale, he couldn’t help but find himself feeling a strange comfort by its presence.

It wasn’t long before they had reached a small creek. It was the same one that he and his brother had visited often in their childhood. Fond memories were there, though they left a cold bitterness. They stopped for a drink, but not before Stiles had washed his hands and face. It was refreshing, feeling the sweat, grime and lingering ash wash away. Derek had watched him, his gaze never faltering, but not unkind. Stiles looked down at himself, fearful that there might have been something that warranted a stare, but he found no offending stains or otherwise embarrassing articles on his person. He levied his warrior with a questioning look.

“Why do you look at me in that way? Is there something on my face?” He asked. Derek shook his head, treading over to pull Stiles to his feet.

“You’re so beautiful. I find it difficult to avert my eyes.” Stiles flushed, taken aback by the sudden compliment. Derek smiled softly, pulling his prince in closer.

“Derek! What-- I just-- Ugh! You can’t just say things like that to me!” He whined, but as he did so, he leaned into Derek’s chest.

“Why not? You would deny my truths? You are the most handsome, the most ravishing, the most gorgeous man of all the lands.” Stiles’s cheeks were colored pink while his lips stretched into a silly smile, but he burrowed his face into Derek’s shoulder.

“I fear I might die of embarrassment if you keep saying these things.” Stiles said, voice muffled where he was still hiding his face. Derek chuckled, fingers finding their place on Stiles chin where he lifted his head so their eyes could meet.

“I’ll tell you every day for the rest of my life. You’re perfect, Stiles. More stunning than the first light of day and more enchanting than the moon’s glow. I am the luckiest man alive to be mated with you. I can only hope to gift you with with at least a fraction of the happiness you have blessed upon me.” Usually, the raw truth would have never left his mouth, but he meant every word. With Stiles, he didn’t want to hide behind the metaphorical walls he had set around himself.

Derek knew he was a broken man, one forever haunted by his past-- no more nobility, kingdom, gold or land. It was still a mystery as to why the prince had chosen him, of all the peoples of the world. He vowed that he would do the best he could, may it be through blood and sweat, to provide Stiles with the life he deserved. Even if what Derek offered would only ever be a sliver of what Stiles could have if he had not consorted with ‘The Black Wolf’.

Stiles had peered into Derek’s eyes, searching for something. His face was slack, surprised and bewildered; lips parted in wonder. Whatever he sought must have been found, for his mouth curled into that private smile that Derek knew was his alone before he leaned forward to catch Derek’s into a kiss. It was sweet, soft and loving. Waves of emotions were being flooded through the bond. Kindness, adoration, desire, warmth, happiness, love and _home._

Derek’s hand found their perch on lithe hips, while Stiles had already moved his arms to circle around Derek’s neck. Their kiss was easy and savored, the both of them enjoying the feel of each other.

That was, until they heard a low, squelching grumble. They stopped mid-kiss. Derek’s eyebrows shooting up while Stiles’ lips gave way into a grin before he laughed shamefully against his warrior’s mouth.

“Um, I suppose I am a bit famished. What of you? I don’t think I’ve seen you eat since we arrived here.” He said, while pulling back. Derek frowned, chastising himself for not thinking better for his mate. He should have thought to gather food for them. He shook his head in a negative.

“I could hunt for you? Vilkatis are natural predators.” He beamed. The statement was true. He knew he was better than any human; a far better provider for Stiles than any other man. The fact of the matter had his chest swelling with pride.

“Would you prefer rabbit? Or Deer? Or--”

“No! Oh Goddess. No thank you, um... I do not eat the flesh of others. It is against my way. I do not believe in ingesting the life of creatures.” Stiles shook his head frantically, face blanched in the slightest. Derek rose a brow, not used to such an odd perception or way of living, but he knew better than to offend his mate. He nodded, rubbing his hands up and down Stiles’ arms tenderly.

“Very well. I would never force it upon you. I am just curious as to what you will eat?” He asked softly. Stiles grinned before reaching down for the satchel he had been filling earlier. He opened it up and presented it, a pleasant smile on his features.

“This! Most of these are edible and they are impossibly good for your health. Worry not of me, Black Wolf. I can take care of myself.” The prince said proudly. A part of Derek wanted to protest, to tell him no. That it was now his duty to provide for them; for his mate. That Stiles would never have to worry himself over such trivial matters, but in that moment Derek could only smirk in amusement. The self-satisfaction of his prince was too bright to stifle. He would tell him the specifics of their mating traditions at a later time.

“Very well. I will hunt and start us a fire. Stay here, I won’t be long.” Derek said, ducking in for a quick kiss before he ran off into the woods. Stiles sat, digging through the various vegetation they had gathered, sorting them by use and edibility. Once his task was done, he ventured out a little ways in search of dry sticks and leaves for their fire.

Derek returned not too long after, two rabbits in one hand while his second hand was upright, cradling what looked like blackberries. His warrior’s face was proud and smug. He dropped his game next to the gathered sticks for the fire, stepping into Stiles’ space to greet him with a kiss and a smile.

“I picked these for you. I thought they would be to your liking.” Along his way back, he had spotted a bushel of these strange berries. He had not seen them before, but their scent was sweet and mouthwatering. He knew they would be a delectable addition to Stiles’ silly weeds. He also took pride in knowing that he was providing nourishment to his mate.

However, Stiles’ face fell into a shocked horror as he reached out, grabbing Derek by his wrist and shook as hard as he could, forcing the berries to scatter onto the ground below.

“Stiles! What the hell?” Derek asked with a frown. Stiles didn’t answer, still frantic in his movements as he pulled Derek towards the stream nearby.

“You fool! Your hand! Get it under the water!” He yelled. Derek planted his feet, unyielding.

“What’s wrong? Stiles, just calm down!”

“Did you eat any?” Stiles begged, ignoring Derek’s question.

“Wha-- No. I picked them for yo-- What in God’s name is going on?” He asked again, anger flaring. Stiles seemed to deflate slightly, but he tugged at Derek again, trying to will him to the water.

“Those were Phytolacca!” He informed, urgency still in his voice. Derek just furrowed his brows, unsure of the severity, if not still completely confused.

“Pokeweed? Inkberry? Ombu? Any of those jostle your mind?” Derek only shook his head, none of the aforementioned names sounding familiar. Stiles must have picked up on his warrior’s unfamiliarity, for he sighed again.

“It is an extremely poisonous plant. If ingested, death is certain. The berries cause allergic reactions such as painful burning where it is met on contact, and eventually, a vile rash. It would render the appendage unusable for days.” He said, tugging at his wrist again. Derek didn’t protest this time, legs following quickly until Stiles shoved his hand under the cool rushing of the water.

The air around them became thick. There was a sharp, prickling dancing along his skin while he felt gravity intensify as his head went slightly hazy. It was undeniably magick. Derek instinctually flinched, wrenching his arm back, eyes landing on Stiles’ hand. It was glowing a subtle blue, the water coated his hand like a glove, donning a silky sheen.

“What are you doing?” He snarled. Stiles looked at him a little lost, unsure of what he did wrong before following Derek’s glare to his hand.

“I was just trying to help. I can heal--”

“No. I don’t need it.” It was quick, terse and blunt. The look on Stiles’ face was dejected, but he eventually sighed, holding his hand over the stream as the watery glove fell from his hand and washed away.

“Very well. I shall concede to your will, but promise you will say if it ails you.” Derek grunted, the tension leaking from his muscles, relaxing with the air around him as it slowly eased back to something familiar and normal. He knew that Stiles would never hurt him, he knew it to his very core, but the idea of magick touching him still made him feel threatened. He nodded curtly to his prince before standing and heading to their small encampment. 

It didn't take long for Derek to build a small fire. He was accustomed to the woods, having spent the majority of his life amongst the outdoors. He felt more at home here than he ever did in the bustling kingdom of Belirti. Stiles ate his weeds while Derek skinned and cleaned his game, setting them to roast over the roaring fire. More than once, he caught Stiles staring into the flames, his heart rate spiking and his scent, acrid and scared. He would always pull his prince closer, settling a hand to Stiles' lower back, massaging away his anxiety. Stiles would always huddle closer to Derek, leaning into him seeking his touch.

The sun had begun to set, the cool air beginning to descend upon the forest was welcome. The fire in front of them kept them warm, and even if it wasn’t, Derek’s body ran hotter than that of a human and easily kept his mate comfortable. Stiles had snuggled closer, resting his face on his warrior’s shoulder. It was peaceful, just the two of them. Enjoying nature and the company of each other. More than once, their lips had met in chaste, teasing kisses, as they spoke of idle things; jesting and playfully shoving. Stiles’ laughter filled the forest, and Derek never wanted it to leave.

It was only a few moments later that Derek’s hand had begun to itch uncontrollably. He would scratch at it incessantly while Stiles would giggle, giving him a sympathetic look shortly after. Derek’s initial response was to scowl, for his prince was finding his bothersome ailment amusing when Derek was silently begging the Gods for the damn, infernal itching to just _stop_. The itch had slowly begun to send quivers of pain up his arm. Subtle at first, but now they had his jaw clenching and his teeth grinding. It had become red and inflamed from his constant scratching, that is when Stiles gently took his wrist and stood.

“I feel your pain, will you still not let me heal you?” He asked hopefully. Derek still didn’t like the idea, if only because he blamed the existence of magick for his family’s demise just as much as he blamed himself. However, Stiles had showed him that not all of it was evil and destructive. In fact, he had witnessed its incredible healing abilities just the night before. Whatever Stiles had done to that bowl of water, it had healed all the burns from his body, leaving his skin flawless and smooth as if the damage had never taken place. Better yet, this was his prince. His Stiles. His _mate_. He knew with every fibre of his being that he could trust Stiles. Even as his wolf growled and snarled at the thought of magick, its trust in their mate was stronger than their apprehension.

Derek nodded and stood, though his face was weary. The relief that rolled off Stiles had made him feel better, knowing that he was pleasing his mate satisfied both him and his wolf.

The prince led them to the water, letting go of Derek’s wrist as he crouched to the stream and dipped a hand in. It lay there for a moment, his fingers spreading open before he swirled his hand in circular motion. The thickening of the air and the prickle of magick didn’t surprise him this time, but it still made his hairs stand on end. Stiles carefully stood, the water now clinging to his hand much like it did before, but now Derek could clearly see the blue glow, shining bright in the low light of the evening sky, along with the tell-tell silky sheen.

“I promise, I would never hurt you. You must know that my words are true.” Stiles said. He had already picked up on Derek’s hesitancy, and he knew well enough that magick was a touchy subject, but he needed him to know that he would sooner die than cause Derek injury. His warrior must have known, for he nodded again as he lifted his hand, palm up. Stiles gently grabbed his wrist, guiding his hand up so that it was positioned in front of him, hand open and relaxed. Then, Stiles’ brought his own up, pressing it against Derek’s, matching them up perfectly.

The water flashed brighter before moving to envelope the rash, sliding between their palms. Derek’s eyes grew wide as the the chilling water dissolved into his skin, healing the wound before dripping from their hands. It was quick and painless-- in fact, it left his hand tingling with a slight euphoric feeling. Stiles’ magick felt like him, in some unexplainable way. Almost as if he had personally licked and kissed the pain away. Derek exhaled softly, and then Stiles’ laced their fingers together. It was natural and more than comforting. 

Stiles smiled, looking into Derek’s eyes before lightly pulling their hands closer to him. He slid his fingers free and leaned in to kiss where the skin had once been an angry red, but was now completely healed and unblemished. His lips were soft where they met Derek’s flesh, and the simple act was enough to make Derek’s pulse race and his heart beat wildly in his chest. His prince pulled his hand to his cheek, holding it there as he nuzzled into the touch.

“Thank you.” Stiles said softly. Derek was confused, at first, but before he could ask, Stiles answered his unspoken question.

“For trusting me-- for letting me heal you.” Derek wasted no time, stepped into his prince’s space until their chests were flush against each other while his free hand came up to cradle Stiles’ other cheek. He wanted to say something; anything to convey his gratitude. To say thank you and I will always trust you, but it all just wasn’t enough. No words could describe how he felt for his mate. So instead, he leaned in slowly and caught the prince’s lips in a kiss that expressed far more than his words could ever impart.

When they pulled apart, Stiles’ eyes slowly fluttered open. His breath caught while his lips turned up into a lazy grin.

“I will never tire of your kiss.” He said, almost in a daze. His hands were resting on Derek’s chest, lightly clenching onto the thin fabric of the man’s shirt.

“Nor will I ever tire of giving them.” Derek replied. He kissed his prince again, quickly as if to prove his point. It was then that he cast his gaze to the sky, where he noticed the fleeting hour of Twilight.

“It would be best if we headed back.” He said, moving his hands to rub down Stiles’ arms. His prince nodded, reluctantly pulling from Derek’s grasp to gather the satchel while Derek put out the ebbing fire. They treaded back slowly, the moon rising high into the sky.

When they made it home, Derek made love to Stiles, slow and tenderly, kissing and marking his mate’s flesh while Stiles moaned out his name. They kissed and smiled while Derek’s knot tied them together. Stiles murmured sweet things as Derek rubbed his fingers up and down Stiles’ side until the swelling of his cock deflated enough for him to slip out.

Derek positioned them so he was holding Stiles against his chest, his nose settled in the crook of his mate’s neck. The smell of their sex in the air and the exhaustion of their bodies lulled them into a peaceful slumber. 

* * *

  

The sun shone bright where it beamed in from the four windows in the new area they had moved to. Stiles was more than adamant about migrating from the claustrophobic room they had taken refuge in. Derek’s wolf had guided him to the small, cramped space that had been nestled in. It was easier to fortify. There were no windows and the only way in or out was a singular door. It was for safety. Not just for him, but for Stiles as well. Now that they had both healed and spent several days getting to the know the area, it was about time that they made a suitable space for them to live and function.

It wasn’t at all ideal, and Derek couldn’t help but feel guilty and exceedingly embarrassed to be allowing his mate, who was a _crown prince_ , to be taking shelter in the ruins of his burnt castle home’s Drawing Room. Ever more so, his instincts had been nagging at him incessantly. To forge a den of his own, to stash his mate away where he knew he’d be safe. Not to say that this territorial level of protection was never there. It had always lingered, somewhere in the back of his mind, even from the moment he had met Stiles, but never before did he have to physically restrain himself from crowding at his mate’s side.

He had thought, perhaps, that this was normal behavior for the newly mated. He never got the chance to discuss it with his family before their untimely demise. He only knew scarce bits of details and the basics of mating and courtship. That and the things he had observed from his parents, aunts and uncles. However, he was at a loss of explanation, of how his wolf prowled within him, sights always set on his mate with a fierce, protective intention.

He buried his thoughts. He could contemplate at another time. As of right now, he was too busy appreciating the way Stiles’ hips were swinging back in forth like a teasing invitation. The sound of his voice filled the room as he hummed a pleasant tune. Derek couldn’t quite recognize it, but he would admit it was very soothing. Or perhaps it was just the way Stiles’ voice seemed to calm him. He didn’t even have to sing on key (and rarely did anyway), for Derek to find it enjoyable.

They had already cleared much of the debris from the room and whatever charred furniture that had remained. The size of it was modest. Bigger than the room they had previously been in, but smaller than most others. There was a beautifully ornate fireplace at the far wall, slightly crumbled but functionable. The windows here were shattered and broken, doing nothing to shield from the elements, but Derek had already thought to cover them later with tarps he knew were still in the basement floor of the castle. Essentially though, the room was completely empty aside from the few things Stiles had gathered from the woods, Derek’s armor, the satchel full of their things and the pelts.

Watching Stiles had Derek’s chest rumbling with satisfaction. Seeing his mate cleaning and preparing their den. His wolf was more than pleased, and the way that Stiles did it so happily only furthered his liking. It was obviously important to him, the way he had told Derek earlier that they needed a clean place to sleep and function. His prince was meticulous about everything. From when he had scrubbed the floors until there were only fleeting traces of the old fire, or from where he had dusted the walls and cleaned the fire place. A part of him wanted to ask why, or to maybe scold Stiles. His prince was exactly that, _a prince_ , not some common folk who would be expected of such labor, but Stiles had done it with enjoyment. With a smile on his face and exuberance in his step.

The prince had even gone so far as to craft tools, clever as he was, from branches, leaves and other various things from the forest. Among them was a broom that he had used to clear the room of lingering ash and dirt. Once he was finished, he made his way to the satchel full of his herbs and such, kneeling down to rummage through it, all the while humming to himself. Never before had Derek savored the simple joy of a hum, but now that it was gracing his ears and filling their den, he never wanted to endure the times without it.

Stiles made a triumphant sound, while thrusting his fist into the air, clutching to a familiar looking plant. The scent of cinnamon filled the air. Stiles stood and made his way towards Derek, who perched up from his lazy posture on the furs they slept on. It still smelt of their sex. Derek was quite of fond of that.

“Here. Tell me what you think of this.” Stiles asked cheerfully as he fell to straddle Derek’s thighs. He made no move to bring the simple, brown stick closer, much like Derek had expected him to, but Stiles was surprisingly mindful of Derek’s enhanced senses. It was incredibly thoughtful, and knowing that Stiles was always so cautious with his movements and sounds, it warmed Derek’s heart. To know that this princeling did all that he could to cater to Derek, no one had been so _aware_ of Derek before. It was...perfect. Stiles was so very _perfect._

Still waiting patiently, Stiles gave his warrior a strange look before tapping a rhythm on Derek’s chest. Derek inhaled subtly, letting the warm, spicy-sweet scent warmed his nostrils. It was an enjoyable smell that he had often come across in the forests surrounding the castle.

“It’s fine. Why do you ask?” Derek inquired. Stiles only smiled, leaning forward for a kiss. It was quick and sweet; playful but left a promise. Then his prince was standing, making his way back to the satchel to retrieve more. He watched as Stiles bent down, using a rock to crush the stalks into a fine powder, grinning to himself. The humming resumed shortly after.

Derek was remarkably curious, but before he could ask again, Stiles was gathering the cinnamon, cupping it as if his hands were a bowl. He once again stood, bringing the spice close to his face where he slowly shut his eyes. The gathering of magick was sudden and intense, all of it focused in on Stiles, accumulating until the air was thick. Then he breathed out and it was like all of the collected magick burst out into every direction. The wind took the powder, thin strands needling out into every direction. They moved as if they were alive, calculated yet entrancing and graceful as they weaved through the air. They lined the room, magick dissipating as the potent scent of cinnamon encompassed them.

Stiles staggered for a moment, breathing in sharply before opening his eyes. He had a blissed out expression, moving his hands down slowly to his sides. There was a pleased gleam in his honey-brown gaze.

“How’s that?” He asked. Derek was indeed impressed. He hadn’t seen anything like it before, but Stiles’ magick always seemed to surprise him. Where he was still weary of it, he could admit that there was something protective and _safe_ about it. The only reference he had to magick was Kate. Hers was ruthless, powerful and unforgiving; walls of fire and earth-shattering quakes. However, Stiles’ seemed to mingle with the elements around him. Never commanding, rather _asking_ for its aid. The result were beautiful displays of magick balancing itself with the energies of nature.

Derek only nodded, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat. Stiles would most likely feel his unease through their bond, but the prince only gave him the faintest of smiles before making his way back to the satchel. Derek moved his body up, perched with interest.

“What are you doing?” The question left his mouth before he had even began to wonder.

“I’m looking for--Ah ha!” The prince stood quickly, his hand full of thick, oval shaped leaves. Already, Derek could feel the beginnings of power thrumming from them.

“I picked these yesterday. They are known to ward off negative energies and whatnot. I figured they could be useful?” He inquired, rather than asked. It took a moment for Derek to understand. Stiles wanted to use protection magick-- place wards along the room. The thought was both enticing and unnerving. A part of him liked the idea of additional protections, if only to better keep his mate safe, but on the other hand...

No. He trusted Stiles, therein he trusted his magick. It was time he stopped letting his past dictate his life with his mate.

“Go ahead.” Derek finally replied. Stiles beamed, his smile open and happy. The relief that flooded through the bond was palpable. He watched as Stiles strategically set the leaves in various places. Each time he would bend down, uttering foreign words under his breath while raw power erected barriers at each entry point. When he set the last one, he wiped his hand, a satisfied nod before he made his way back to his warrior. He quickly bent down, kissing Derek. Only this time, it was deep and slow, tongued mingling conveying unspoken gratitude.

“Thank you...” He whispered against Derek’s lips as he pulled away. Derek grinned, reaching out to pull Stiles back against his lips, devouring his mouth with the hunger and fervor that only echoed the beast he truly was. Mostly though, his wolf has been incessant with their need for Stiles all day now. Watching its mate with admiration and fondness as he cleaned and built up their den. The entire time, his heart had been pounding in his chest. It was all so perfect, he couldn’t remember a time that he had been this jovial; that his wolf was this content and delighted. He couldn’t believe that he had this. That Stiles was there, with him; for him. That Stiles was _his_.

Derek pulled back, a smirk tugging at his lips as he opened his eyes to meet with Stiles’ gaze, whose own eyes were blown wide with lust. He watched with a renewed desire as his prince licked at his lips, following the motion intently before shaking his head only slightly. It was eventide now and neither of them had eaten anything but the meager amount of berries Stiles had deemed safe for consumption. As much as he cared for his prince, if he had to suffer through another meal of weeds and berries, he would most likely die of starvation. He needed to hunt, to catch prey and feel the flesh tearing between his incisors as the coppery taste of blood filled his mouth. He needed _meat_.  

“I’m going out to hunt.” Derek said as he rose from his spot on the pelts. Stiles looked up at him, confused and maybe a little disappointed that their kiss had not veered in the direction his scent was dictating it wanted it to go, but there would be time for that later. Stiles nodded, standing and wiping his hands on his-- _Derek’s_ \--breaches, since the prince had yet to acquire clothing of his own. Not that Derek minded, he rather enjoyed the sight and scent of his mate donning his cloth. His wolf especially approved, preening with delight.

Derek was quick in his hunt, bringing back a deer. It felt right, taking it back to the confines of their den. As if the act was second nature, following his instincts. However, when Stiles caught sight of his meal, his face turned to horror and his knees buckled beneath him as his stomach lurched. The salty aroma of sorrow hit his senses immediately.

Stiles had quickly regained his composure, coercing Derek into letting him pray for the creature, guiding its spirit to _The Summerland_. Derek would never understand his prince. He watched with furrowed brows as Stiles knelt down and prayed over the dead animal before finally lifting to his feet, seemingly finished with whatever it was he was doing. Derek might have felt a little bad afterward. He also was convinced the deer tasted funny thanks to whatever weird ritual Stiles had performed.

Derek’s need to hunt and bring in animal-meat didn’t stop Stiles from crawling into Derek’s lap after their meals late at night, riding his cock until Derek’s knot was forcing its way passed his rim where it spilled his seed deep into his hole. Stiles followed shortly after with loud cries of pleasure, spilling out onto Derek’s chest, only to collapse a moment later. It almost felt like being a wild animal himself, this insatiable need he felt to be full of Derek all the time.

Stiles rested his chin on Derek’s chest after he’d collapsed there from an intense romp, his warrior running his fingers through the slightly damp locks of his hair. Stiles hummed lazily against his skin, exhaustion beginning to take hold, but that didn’t seem to diminish the bright gleam of his eyes. Derek was transfixed, unable to turn from his prince’s gaze that spoke volumes. He was looking at him as if he had crafted every star in the sky and hung the moon.

A pang of guilt shot through Derek’s chest. He couldn’t help but feel like he didn’t deserve such a praise; that he was unworthy of Stiles’ affections. As much as he’d like to forget the outside world and entertain the thought of them living out their days here, with the forest and their den, he knew that was being unrealistic. Stiles was born a prince. Noble blood flows through his fragile veins. He had lived that life of privilege and luxury for seventeen years. Derek was no fool, he knew that Stiles would want those things back eventually, which is why he let himself broach a top they’ve both been ignoring.

The fact that Stiles can never return home. That he can never see his father again. That his people have all turned against them, and it’s all Derek’s fault. If only he had stayed away. If he had never taken that damn token. If he hadn’t let him in, let him seep through the cracks of the Black Wolf’s cold, black armor, he’d still be in a castle that had a roof and servants. He’d be surrounded with a kingdom of people who adored him and a father who loved him.

“I’ve ruined your life, Stiles... I’m sorry. I wish...”

Stiles’ face fell further into despair as every word fell from Derek’s lips, shaking his head frantically before cradling his warrior's head in his hands. 

“No. Derek, no. Please. Don’t say such things to me.” He said, tone pleading and desperate.

"With me, Stiles... With me I cannot offer you a place in power, as royalty. With me, we will only ever be fugitives." Derek whispered quietly. Stiles only shook his head again, this time a grin pulled at his lips.

"I don't care for power, or royalty. When we're together, Derek, you're _my_ king, and that's all that matters to me." He didn’t even need to think about it, Derek filled the space between them and captured Stiles’ lips with his own. He knew, from that moment, that Stiles was where he belonged. Stiles was his everything. That nothing else mattered in this world but the young man in his arms. Stiles was his mate and he loved him more than life itself.

* * *

 

_THUD._  
  
 _“....Get.... you.... silence!”_

_ “Look.....tremble....” _

_ “Ha! He’s so... bad wolf...” _

His body jerked forward, waking to the sudden thud, and the muffled voices. Derek felt crippled with panic for a moment as he instinctively picked up on the heartbeats of intruders. Many of them. Stiles’ body was no longer beside his.

Half bare from his scant sleeping attire, Derek was on his feet, and running toward the invaders in the Main Hall. When he got there, his face was already shifted, contorted in fierce anger, claws extended and ready to attack. 

What stilled him was the sight of Stiles laying prone on the ground. He was still, and unmoving, despite the knife in his hand --a hand which lay above his head-- tense, but unthreatening for the moment. The reason he lay so still was the even sharper blade pressed against his throat, the cold metal forcing his chin to tilt upwards. Stiles tried his best to remain placid, he dare not even swallow, as he stared up at the man standing above him; on him. A hard boot was pressed heavily on his chest, keeping him pinned down.

Derek’s vision swam red with fury.

The man, whose back was turned to him, had a lithe stout figure, built for power rather than grace. There was no doubt that he achieved both, though. Just as Derek had thought, he was not the only one. Standing all around the scene with his mate, Derek took in the sight of three beta Vilkatis. A woman with flaxen hair and a cocky smirk he desperately yearned to erase, and two men. One was also blonde, slender and somber, while the other stood tall, and intimidating with his dark, exotic skin and shaved head. Each one of them bore the glowing ember eyes of a beta, and the extended fangs of wolves on the edge of attack.

Derek could hardly think of what to do to save his mate. There wasn’t time. His wolf was screaming at him to stop thinking and act, but he was still, afraid that if he did, he would cause Stiles’ death with his irrational actions. 

It seemed, though, that he would not have to act.

“ _Peter! Stop!_ ” Cried out a clear, female voice as the body who owned it rounded the corner out of the Dining Hall. Derek felt as if he’d been impaled through his heart and his face simultaneously as his blood ran cold. 

Her dark hair was braided back, but it was the same shade of raven’s wing as his own. Some stray strands of it curled around her face. Her eyes flared amber, before settling back to a startlingly clear hazel just like his.

“Laura?” He whispered silently, his voice leaving his lips without his permission. Her head jerked to him, as did five other sets of eyes. Every person in the room was focused intently on the Fallen Prince now.

“Derek?!” She choked out in disbelief.

“Stiles?” The young prince squeaked out, his own confusion the greatest in the room, where he lay, still pinned and feeling helpless in more ways than one.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks to [TorakoDragon](http://torakodragon.tumblr.com/) for the beautiful art she drew for FAS! Check it out [here](http://25.media.tumblr.com/4e7f6644f25058fc5e5c1ce60a852ff9/tumblr_mkparci9do1r9mtqjo1_r1_1280.png), [here](http://th07.deviantart.net/fs70/PRE/i/2013/098/8/d/fas_doodles_1_by_torakodragon-d60ycun.png), [here](https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/u/17113534/FAS02.png) and [here](https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/u/17113534/Torako%20-%20CH5%20kissu.jpg)!
> 
> Also, a huge thanks to [Velhalily](http://velhalily.tumblr.com/) for her awesome artisty, too! Check it out [here](http://24.media.tumblr.com/be12a28156ff0f3f6c307f8084963341/tumblr_mksvcjczSt1s30gd1o1_500.png) and [here](http://24.media.tumblr.com/003b6b245274d16f32d54aa19fdf132a/tumblr_mkx5r1Jjw11s30gd1o1_500.png)!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been reading this story. We love all of you so much!

“...Hellooo?” Stiles said curiously, when the silence stretched out awkwardly.

The fact that Stiles had no clue what was going on was a huge understatement. However, he was mostly glad that the sword had veered from his throat and the boot had lifted from his chest. He could breathe. Stiles' heart was still thrashing against his ribcage as he swallowed heavily and sat up, but the woman who had just rounded the corner finally moved. She was jumping into Derek’s arms, and the man who was just pinning him down had a bewildered look on his face as he hastily made his way over, enveloping them both in a hug. That was when he noticed the expression on Derek’s face. 

He looked absolutely _gutted_ \-- raw and flayed, like every last piece of his armor was stripped away and all that was left was a terrified and defenseless child. It was only after further inspection that Stiles began to see the truth to his expression. It was one of relief; a rare happiness that he had only seen on scarce occasion.

He looked like a little boy who had been separated from his family in a crowd, and had finally been reunited with them. Stiles couldn’t even see the irony in his mental comparison just yet, but he would soon enough.

Stiles’ confusion was only rivaled by the ugly, green burning in his chest. It was a misguided jealousy, and it boiled his blood for a hot, flaring moment of nausea and pain before something tugged at the back of his mind. Derek had breathed out a name, when the woman had appeared.

_Laura..._

It only took a moment for the connections to snap together in his mind. Laura was Derek’s dead sister. They had only just spoken about her the day previous. Stiles’ eyes opened wider, only to narrow again in confusion a second later. For now, though, the scene in front of him seemed far more intimate than it did just seconds prior. Derek was being reunited with a member of his family he had spent the majority of his adult life thinking had perished in a fire. A fire he was convinced was of his own volition.

Stiles stood, but made no move to be near Derek. Instead, he shied away from the reunion in front of him and let his gaze wander to the three other people huddled away from the rest of them. They looked just as lost as Stiles was, if not more. Before he could address the silent watchers, the sound of voices demanded his attention back towards the spectacle in front of them.

“Derek! Oh, by the Gods! Derek, I can’t believe it! I thought-- for so many years! And you were alive and--” Suddenly, the woman-- _Laura_ \--pushed away from Derek, who was still looking more or less like he’d just seen a ghost, and cupped his face.

“Oh, baby brother, this is amazing. I-- you need to tell me everything! _Everything_! Where have you been? What have you been doing? What have you-- Fuck! I have so many questions!” She said, fumbling around her own words in sheer excitement. Her eyes looked glassy, as if they were about to spill over with tears of joy at any moment. The man beside them had a hand clasped to Derek’s shoulder, a simple yet cheerful grin on his face. Derek’s voice was all but absent up to this point, and although Stiles could feel his warrior’s happiness, it was heavily buried by guilt and shame. Stiles ached to move to Derek’s side, but the moment in front of him stilled his legs. He felt he had no place in the reunion of Derek’s family.

It seemed as though Derek felt otherwise. He returned the affection to the both of them, setting his hands on both of Peter and Laura’s shoulders before nodding and pulling away. He made his way over Stiles’ side again.

“Are you alright?” He asked Stiles in a low tone, reaching up to carefully touch the small nick on the prince’s throat from the blade that had been pressed there. Stiles just nodded, resting his own hand over Derek’s, pulling it away in a gentle manner.

“I’m fine. Talk to them.” He urged quietly, letting Derek know with his eyes that he really was okay.

“I’ve been with Stiles-- _my mate_.” Derek preened loudly, while straightening his posture and wrapping an arm around Stiles’ waist to present a complete picture of them as a couple. Instantly, the prince leaned into Derek’s side, like it was second nature. The contact seemed to ease them both, if only slightly. 

Derek appeared to let his gaze flick from Laura and the man, to the other three werewolves standing a short distance away. It was then that Stiles thought that Derek’s reasoning for quickly setting himself to Stiles’ side was not only to just inform them of their bond, but to also put himself between the strangers and his mate.

Laura and the older man exchanged surprised looks before she turned back to Derek and Stiles. She was wearing a feral grin that had the prince swallowing the sudden lump that lodged in his throat. She slapped the man-- _Peter, his mind supplied_ \--on his arm excitedly before making her way over to Stiles who instinctively gripped at his warrior’s back.

“Oh Derek! Look at him! He’s adorable!” She cooed, sending her grin up to her brother before focusing back at Stiles. “Look at that cute face!” She stopped only a foot away and sniffed audibly, scrunching her nose up, blanching a little.

“Yes, he is most definitely your mate. I can smell your _claim_ all over him. Good God, little brother. It smells like you’ve been incredibly busy. It’s a wonder the poor boy can still stand.” Stiles groaned as he felt his skin burn hot with embarrassment, digging his face into Derek’s shoulder. Only, Derek seemed all too pleased with his sister’s words, sporting a smug smile and puffing his chest out in a self-satisfied pride, all the while tightening his hold on Stiles.

“Well, as we’ve learned today, anybody could waltz in here. I needed to make sure my claim was fully... _asserted_.” Derek replied as tactfully as he could. Laura rolled her eyes and took a shallow breath from the side, before starting up her advance again. Coming up to Stiles, she took his hand in hers, squeezing gently. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Laura, Derek’s sister. That’s our uncle, Peter, and our other pack-mates. Erica, Isaac is the scrawny blonde boy, and Boyd. We’re... not much of a pack, but that’s what we are.” She said proudly. As each one was introduced, they either waved or, in Boyd’s case, nodded. Stiles let his eyes scan over the other betas quietly for a moment, before slightly pulling away from Derek. His mate gave an immediate, but silent protest but Stiles could hear it in the cut off sound that muffled in the other’s throat before it could exit.

Bringing his feet together, Stiles squared his shoulders before taking Laura’s hand in his own right grip. He tucked his left fist behind his back, as he leaned forward into a bow, raising the princess’s hand so that he could touch her knuckles to his forehead, and then to his lips. It was a formal bow, perfect etiquette for one royal meeting a female royal from a different family.

“Merry meet. It is a miraculous event that brings us together, but it is one I am glad to be a part of, nevertheless.” Only, as Stiles said it, Laura bellowed out a hearty laugh, pulling her hand away and poking him on the forehead.

“Silly boy. We don't worry ourselves on trivial formalities out here. You're too cute for words! I could just tuck you in my corset and keep you forever if my brother wouldn't lose his mind!” She teased flippantly as her hand patted at his warm cheek. Stiles flushed with embarrassment, righting himself as he felt Derek’s arm firmly wind itself around his waist again. This time the hold felt possessive, a growling sound, low and guttural, emanating from his mate. Though, the underlying threat didn’t seem to phase Laura in the slightest. She laughed again, patting her little brother on his cheek with a playful smirk identical to Derek’s own rarer version.

“Don’t be such a puppy, Der-Der. You’re a man now. Childish acts are surely beneath you.” She said as her whole body seemed to fall into a familiar routine. Derek snarled, snapping his teeth, though the whole debacle seemed more playful than threatening. Typical sibling bickering.

For a moment, the scene left Stiles feeling like an outsider again. It was visceral, at its core. Despite the many years that had kept the two separate, it was impossible to deny that they were brother and sister. There was an ease between them. As if no time had passed, they picked right back up where they’d left off. To some degree at least.

Stiles noticed that Derek seemed disconnected to a point. He let himself peer through their bond, using the abilities of his empathy to try and understand how he was feeling. The results tore through his heart. 

Derek was still under the ruse that this meeting was a farce. It was like he simply could not allow himself to believe that this was anything more than a very intense, and cruel dream. That he’d eventually wake up, and they’d be gone. All of them. Even Stiles. He was wondering what he had he ever done to deserve someone like Stiles. To deserve a second chance with fragments of his family. Every waking moment he feared he’d open his eyes from a blink, and find it was all a delusion.

Before Stiles could think to appease his warrior's fears, he noticed Peter had moved beside them with a fond look and a teasing grin.

“Now now, children. Don't make me leash you to opposite sides of the castle, again. I thought we'd matured beyond that.” He drawled out dryly. His hand came up, patting Derek’s shoulder proudly.

“Congratulations, dear nephew. The unification of mates is a momentous occa--” Peter stalled, eyes landing on Stiles perceptively.

“Forgive me, but you said your name was...?” He prompted suddenly. It was unsettling, the way his eyes seemed to be piercing into his skin, and with the sudden interest in his name, Stiles couldn’t help but feel more than a little vulnerable.

“My name is Stiles.” He reiterated, not bothering to bow again, instead seeping further into Derek’s side. Peter’s eyes seemed to spark with amusement.

“Prince Stiles of Belirti? The witch prince whom was sentenced to death by his own kingdom?" At the words, everyone seemed to tense, Derek’s fingers digging almost painfully into Stiles’ skin. Stiles nodded once, forcefully, before meeting the man’s eyes.

“I was their prince, though clearly I have not been executed.” He retorts, dodging the bit of his involvement in the craft.

“Curious,” Peter hums. “It was to my knowledge that the Argents had just recently released a decree that you and your pet ‘ _demon_ ’ were captured and killed.” He said, eyes flitting between both Derek and Stiles knowingly. When neither of them responded, he laughed dryly.

“How unrefined to make such farcical rumors if only to rid the kingdom of its royalty.” Though it was said out loud for all to hear, his gaze was fixed firmly on Stiles with a suspicious smirk. Derek wasn’t subtle in the slightest as he moved in front of Stiles, as if to shield him away. As noble as the gesture was, the prince was having none of it. He would not hide from who he was any more. He stepped from behind Derek and jut his chin out defiantly.

“The rumors are true. I am what they say. I am a witch.” There was a moment when everything was almost painfully silent, everyone waiting for some sort of reaction. Much to Stiles’ surprise, Peter only shrugged, and with that, the hostile apprehension dissipated.

“We are not a prejudiced people. Magical Folk are not uncommon in our travels. They are a peaceful kind-- _mostly_.” The fact that Stiles was thankful was an understatement, and although he was still leery of Peter, he gave him a pleasant smile before letting Derek pull him back to his side.

Beside them, Laura was still visibly giddy in her excitement of her baby brother and his newly mated, but all too suddenly she seemed to have a dawning curiosity and her brows furrowed in confusion.

“Wait--So... if you're with Stiles now... What happened to...” Peter finished the sentence, their minds quickly falling into tandem.

“Kate. Did she perish in the fire?” 

As the name fell from his mouth, Stiles felt his blood run cold as he was consumed by a bitter anger. Yet, an overbearing wave of grief and shame washed over his being. He instantly knew the emotions weren’t his own, but Derek’s. He drew back his arm, finding Derek’s hand with ease and lacing their fingers together. Derek gave a firm squeeze, whether it be from nerves or an appreciative gesture, Stiles didn’t know nor care. All he knew was that he needed to be there for him.

The distress was practically tangible and it didn’t go unnoticed by the other werewolves. Isaac, Erica and Boyd had all hunched a little lower, assuming a posture that readied them for an attack. Laura’s smile had all but vanished, a tentative frown left in its wake, and Peter had already set distance between him and his nephew.

Stiles glanced up to Derek’s face to see that his eyes were already looking at him, his expression young and hopeless. Stiles only gave him a gentle look, hoping to convey that he was there and wasn’t going anywhere. He cleared his throat, tightening his grip on Derek’s hand.

“Do you want me to...?” He offered gently, but Derek only steeled himself, shaking his head in a jerky motion, turning his attention to Laura and Peter.

“I--No. She didn’t die in the fire,” he grit out, now clutching Stiles’ hand like a lifeline. “She- Kate, she started it.” Laura gasped and stepped back, her face contorted in a pained disbelief like she had just been physically struck while Peter’s eyes flared a dangerous crimson. However, Derek continued with his explanation.

“I spent the years tracking her down... but it was like she had vanished,” His voiced dropped, and Stiles could feel the resentment, the self-condemnation; all the things he hid deep within himself seeped through their bond, but he didn’t falter. It was as if he knew he needed them to know. He needed them to understand _why_. 

“When my search began to yield no result, I--I gave up and sought out my death to join you. It would not find me though.” Stiles felt his heart ache with sorrow. What must it have been like, he wondered? For Derek to spend so many nights, weeks and years, slowly giving up on his life; drowning in his self-loathing. He only realized then that he was pressing further into Derek’s side, feeling powerless to ease his warrior’s lingering misery. 

“Instead, Stiles found _me_.” and with those words, Stiles was left a little surprised, but smiling, because indeed his words were true. He had found him, and now Derek was his as much as Stiles belonged to him.

“Actually, I ran into him.” Stiles corrected, verbally staking his own claim. He couldn’t act it out animalistically the way Derek did with his family. In that silent moment which followed his statement after Derek had ended his confession, he vowed that he would never let anyone harm his warrior. He would do everything in his power to keep him safe. Before he knew what he was doing, he had pressed his lips to Derek’s jaw, chaste and simple, but the meaning behind it was undeniable in its intensity.

However, Derek quickly pulled Stiles to his side, wrapping his arm around him protectively, a growl working its way through his throat. It only took a moment for Stiles to realize that the growl wasn’t meant for him, but rather it was a warning to everyone else who seemed to be glaring cautiously at the prince.

Derek was quick to make amends, his eyes flaring blue as he tried to ease their anxieties.

“Heed your thoughts, Stiles is nothing but benevolent. He is no vile sorcerer like Kate. His magick is pure and good. More than once has he used it to save my life and the countless lives of others. He is a selfless man who regards the needs of people before himself.” His words hung in the air while they all seemed to stare into one another. Stiles kept silent and still at Derek’s side even though he was practically vibrating with a carefully repressed anger to express the truth behind his warrior’s statement. Stiles was done with all of the misplaced opinions of the craft. He’d lived his entire life doing nothing but helping others and the land only for them to sneer and cast slander on his people’s way, but he knew that now wasn’t the time to let his mouth get the better of him. He trusted in Derek’s resolve to appease his family and their packmates.

Peter snarled, his posture dangerous. Stiles could feel the barely suppressed rage boiling just under the surface. He turned quickly and left the room, but Stiles didn’t miss the shiny gleam of his claws that balled in his fist, nor the blood that was spilling from his hands where he had inadvertently cut into into his own flesh.

Laura regarded his depart with a sad look before turning her attention back to Derek, her shoulders slumped, but Stiles couldn’t sense any anger, just an overwhelming compassion and sadness for her little brother. She quickly filled the space between them. Derek tensed, pushing Stiles behind him out of an instinctual need to protect his mate, but was taken by surprise when Laura’s arms enveloped him tenderly.

“Fuck, Der. I didn’t-- By the Gods! I always hated that bitch. I knew she was trouble the moment you dragged her home. I only-- fuck!” She was flustered and her anger flared, though it was evident in its intention towards Kate. Her hands rubbed down her brother’s back soothingly, and at that, Derek seemed to go lax in her hold. He knew in that moment that his sister did not blame him, that alone was enough to quell a large portion of his guilt and shame.

A low whine left Derek’s throat as he let his head fall on Laura’s shoulder. She made a soothing sound, a comforting hush. Stiles ached in his desire to siphon away Derek’s pain, but he knew that his sister was the person he needed most and he took solace in that truth. Derek wasn’t alone anymore. He had family again, and despite the certainty that Stiles would be at his side for the rest of his life, sometimes the comfort of a sibling was better suited to relieve deeper and darker wounds.

Laura slowly drew herself back, ruffling Derek’s hair in an affectionate way before peering over to Stiles. He offered her a quiet smile and slight nod. The gesture wouldn’t be misconstrued in its meaning as thanks. She was quick to return it, shifting her attention back to her little brother.

“Don’t mind Peter. He just needs time. The fire still weighs heavy on his mind.” Derek frowned, his head falling a little. Laura bit her lip, giving a once over to everyone in the room before stepping back and clapping her hands together.

“Well! Let’s lighten the mood a bit, shall we?” She said with a grin. “Tell me, what’s the story between you two? I demand every last detail!” She motioned between the two men in front of her. Stiles flushed, a soft grin taking shape on his lips as he peered up at Derek through his lashes shyly. Derek was staring down at him in adoration, a smirk of his own reflecting back.

“Well, as I said earlier,” Stiles began, turning back to Laura with mischief in his eyes. “It all started when this surly knave,” he knocked a hand against Derek’s chest in jest with an even bigger smile. “So rudely ran me over one day in the markets...”

* * *

Derek listened fondly as Stiles animatedly went on a fantastical retelling of their time together. More than once Derek had rolled his eyes when Stiles would exaggerate Derek’s grumpy attitude or his fighting prowess during his matches in The Crucible. Though he’d be lying if he didn’t feel a swelling of pride knowing that his mate thought so highly of his battle skill. Laura was completely enthralled by the story, laughing loudly and commenting on Derek’s more obvious behaviors. Even the other members of the pack seemed to be captivated by Stiles’ wild tales, as they were now huddled closer together with faint grins of their own. The prince’s animated face and easy laugh had drawn them in, until they were all standing in close proximity, their guard lowered at long last.

At the end of it, Laura was nearly in tears when Stiles had told them about what the kingdom had done to him. It was still a sore topic, one that had Derek pulling Stiles against his chest while he ran his hands up and down his mate’s arms. Laura was quick when she finally pulled Stiles away from Derek, in for a tight hug. Derek’s hackles raised, but his wolf was now reacquainted with his sister’s scent. He easily quelled the desire to snarl and growl at the sight of her touching his mate.

“You poor thing,” She said, pulling back to look him in the eye. Her hands cupped his face gently, though a deadly contortion of her features had her donning a menacing scowl.

“Those damned Argents. The next time I see one-- Ugh!” She growled. “You’ll find my claws ripping them in two.” Derek couldn’t help the smirk that stole his mouth. This was the Laura he knew. Violent and ruthless, but always confident and sweet on the surface, if not melded with the infamous Hale snark. She sighed, the anger draining from her taut muscles as she reigned herself in and regarded them with a sympathetic look.

“You’ve both been through much, but I’m glad that you’ve found each other. You share something special and genuine. Something that I’ve only seen once before... in our parents.” She said softly, pointedly looking at Derek before setting her gaze on Stiles.

“I’m glad my little brother has found a mate in you, Stiles. I see you are good for him. He deserves someone as kind and noble, not to mention lively and jovial, if not to at least balance out all his new dour disposition.” She laughed at the end when Derek rolled his eyes and grunted.

“Great, so you know all about us, now tell me, what have you been doing? Why have I not heard anything of you? Why didn’t you reclaim Vilkas? Lead our people? Rebuild the kingdom?” Derek’s voice began to raise in anger, an anger that didn’t bode well with his sister. He hadn’t meant to become irate, but as he spoke, the questions flooded and fell from his mouth before he could better compose them. Laura snarled, her own rage bristling to the surface, roused by Derek’s crass accusations.

“Me? What of you, little brother? Or do you forget that it is your birthright to take up the crown? You so clearly survived the fire, so why did _you_ flee? Hmmm?” And with that, the easy mood that graced them melted away and was replaced by a heavy tension. Derek was growling, his irritation reaching its peak, though Stiles must have sensed his regret, threading their fingers together once again. 

Derek snarled, casting his gaze aside, but noticed that Stiles was giving him a curious look. He must have known what was happening; that Derek was submitting, yet unwilling to answer his sister’s questions in fear of being judged for his cowardice.

That fateful night was still ever present in his memories. The feeling of loss and blame, the untamable rage and hatred, all of it directed inward. He didn’t let himself stay, didn’t even attempt to take his rightful place as Vilkas’ King. He was a _murderer_ , a far cry for what the people needed, and when the agonizing screams of his family finally died down; their bonds slowly fading from his mind, he snapped and stopped trying to think or feel or _be_. He let the wolf take over and receded int the depths of his mind, ran as far away as he could and became the pitiful beast he truly was.

“Derek...” Stiles whispered but didn’t speak further. It was killing him to keep silent but this wasn’t a conversation he belonged in.

Laura must have smelled the grief and shame for she deflated all at once, huffing out an aggravated breath before flipping the conversation entirely.

“Peter and I have been inseparable since-- _that night_. We were both in the forests, each of us tending to our own hunts. I suppose you could say we were in contest, to see who could bring in the bigger game, you know how competitive I am. Nevertheless, when I heard their howls, I ran back as quick as I could. Peter was already there and he didn’t hesitate in his attempts to breach the walls of fire.” She ran a hand down her face, almost as if she wanted to wipe the images away.

“He did, you know,” She said quietly. “He got in here, and he grabbed the closest child he could, and do you-- do you know who it was?” She crossed her arms, her eyes glossy and sad. “It was Molly. His own daughter. She was burning in his arms, Derek. Do you know what that must have been like? To not only see your own kin burning, but to smell it and hear their cries of pain!” She was close to screaming now, the tears falling from her face. She didn’t raise her voice further though, in fear that it would fail under the weight of her emotions.

“But he didn’t stop. He held her to his body and ran from the Castle, but it was too late. She was already gone and his body was burned and seared with only the charred remains of his child to show for it.” She quickly wiped away her tears, coughed to clear her throat, and straightened her posture, inhaling deeply to gather herself. Just like that, there was no inkling that she had just suffered any sort of emotional distress, save for the redness rimming her eyes and the pallid color of her cheeks. Derek wasn’t surprised, not only was he too consumed with thoughts of his uncle’s pain, but Laura had always been the stronger one. Quick, and cunning; more in control of herself. Unfaltering in her confidence and solidarity. Derek always believed she would be the better leader.

“I tended to his wounds, but he was lost to his own troubled mind. He didn’t speak for weeks and he barely moved from the camp we set for ourselves far from the kingdom.” Laura made her way over to a wall and leaned against it, making herself more comfortable.

“When the fire died out, I went back in search of survivors, even though I knew it was a futile notion. Not even the bodies remained, only ash.” She chuckled dryly, shaking her head.

“I guess I was being foolishly hopeful, as always.” Derek wanted to go to her, to comfort his sister who was so clearly drowning in pain, but the reality and the aftermath of the fire never plagued his thoughts, most likely because he never let it. He didn’t want to think about the resulting devastation. Only, Laura was telling him now, because she had to live through it. The knowledge that he could have been there-- _should have been there_ \-- shook him to his core. Though Stiles was with him now, and he kept their hands firmly laced while the other rubbed soothing circles on his back. It was the only thing keeping him from breaking down.

“The power of the Alpha transferred to him that night. Slowly his body healed and when he was finally freed from his trance, we retired from the kingdom. There was nothing left for us here. We drifted from place to place, doing what needed to be done to survive. Peter fit into the role of Alpha easily enough, but soon we realized that we needed a new pack. So when we heard of a young girl who was ‘ _possessed_ ’ and suffered fits from the Devil, we knew we had our first member.” Laura was giving the blond a devious smile. Erica scoffed and rolled her eyes, putting up a wall of feigned disinterest, but Derek could tell otherwise. Erica stepped forward, a sashay to her hips while she inspected her nails.

“They were seizures. Everyone in my village were fools, quick to place blame on evil influence. Perhaps if they would have only taken their heads from their asses, they’d have known it was a more common ailment than they believed. After Peter gave me the Bite, they stopped completely.” Erica’s gaze flitted between Derek and Stiles who were now giving her their attention. However, Derek’s wolf bristled when he noticed her eyes lingering on Stiles and the heady scent of arousal began to permeate the air. Derek pulled Stiles close to him and growled, letting his eyes flash a dangerous blue. Erica only grinned, all sharp teeth and seductive intentions.

Derek decided he didn’t like her.

It didn’t take but a moment for the darker skinned werewolf-- _Boyd, he recalled_ \--to pull her back against him with a guttural growl of his own, to which Erica only sniggered at. Laura rolled her eyes, the gesture was so painfully familiar to Derek.

“Puppies...” She muttered under her breath, fondly.

“Boyd is a bit protective.” She said, looking at the stockier, more built of the group. “We came across him when passing through the most bigoted little shithole of a town. One I’d rather not see again lest I cut every person open who dwells there.” The anger was evident in the way she frowned in disgust.

“The town thought it would be _convenient_ to enslave a race of people based on the color of their skin,” she spat the words, her hand balling into a tight fist.

“Boyd refused to listen, of course, stubborn man he is, and for his insubordination, he was sentenced to fifty lashings. When we found him, he was left in an alleyway, bleeding out. Peter offered him the bite if only to ensure his life, but after the change, Boyd asked to join us, a request we couldn't refuse.” Boyd didn’t pay them any mind, instead opting to nip and sniff at Erica’s neck. It was obvious they were a couple, that immediately put Derek at ease. He’d still keep a watchful eye on this woman. No one would take his Stiles away from him.

“And I suppose that would bring us to Isaac” Laura went on, nodding towards the curly haired boy.

At this point, Stiles frowned, and looked a little harder at Isaac. Earlier, they’d all been so confused and busy trying to sort out just what the hell was going on that he hadn’t even noticed the tug of recognition he felt for the boy. As if he’d known him before--

“Isaac? Of Draelynn Moore?” Stiles asked at last. Isaac didn’t look surprised that Stiles knew him, he merely gave a half grin and a bit of a huffed laugh.

“So you remember me, do you?” Isaac drawled out a bit. It had been years, but of course Stiles would know Isaac. Derek glanced down at Stiles curiously, his eyes showing his question.

“His blood is noble. The heir to a Dukedom, in fact.” Stiles explained. “We’ve met a handful of times at court, whenever his father would be called in for politics, or for festival. Thinking about it now, I haven’t seen Isaac, nor his father in a good five years. Duke Lahey began to refuse invitation and summons after--” Derek seemed satisfied with the explanation, and Stiles was glad for it because he didn’t feel as though he could continue to tell Isaac’s story when he stood to listen. Isaac was obviously uncomfortable at the turn of topic.

“His brother fell in battle and his mother had died of consumption.” Laura interjected, giving Isaac a sympathetic look, who was glaring pointedly at the floor now, his humor from before now gone. Derek didn’t miss the aborted movement his sister made in what would seem as a need to comfort her packmate.

“All he had left was his father who had sought comfort in his mead and brandy. The things he did to Isaac...” Her voice cut off, eyes flashing amber as she pushed off the wall to pace around the room.

“If it wasn’t for Peter and I raiding their stock, he might still be locked in that cellar. He was in there for what looked like days. We knew we couldn’t leave him so Peter offered him the Bite and place within our pack; a place where he would be appreciated.” Derek took another moment to assess them all. 

Their lives were almost as broken as the Hale’s, and perhaps that’s why Peter and Laura took pity on them? For who would know such pain better than them? Laura must have known what was going through her brother’s thoughts, she cleared her throat.

“Like I said, we aren’t much, but we look out for one another and that’s what matters. We’re a pack-- _family_.” For some reason, those words seemed to hit Derek deeply. Even Stiles could have sworn he _smelled_ the change in his emotions. Even without their bond, he would have known how Derek felt so completely unwanted in just that moment. Laura wasn’t finished speaking though. 

“An incomplete pack though it may be, but what can be done when part of your family is off galavanting through distant kingdoms seducing young princelings?” She teased suddenly, with a bit of a grin. “Now, can you stand to take a break from breeding your mate into exhaustion to take a meal with us and talk about joining the pack?”

Stiles was almost certain his cheeks could scald cold milk, with how hot they had become with his blush. “H-hey! I... He.. W-we a...” He couldn’t stop stammering long enough to get a cohesive statement out. Just like that, the tension was broken, and everyone, including Derek, was laughing at Stiles' embarrassment.

“Yes, my dear vulgar sister, I think that could be arranged. Mother would have your tongue for the way you speak now.” Derek chastised easily, an amicable grin exchanged between them. Stiles, still red to his gills, floundered and whined a little as he stared between the two siblings.

“Derek you--! Laura-- I... Oh, you are a cruel bloodline and I’m quite certain now that I don’t like either of you at all.” He got out finally, turning on his heel and storming from the Entrance Hall down towards the Dining Hall.

* * *

It didn’t take long for the group to shuffle into their den. Derek’s wolf didn’t take too well with amount of new people being in his territory, but he knew he could trust his sister’s pack. So he pushed back the initial urge to growl and attack. Stiles directed them to take seat around the broken fireplace. Derek watched in satisfaction as each of the wolves scrunched up their noses when the scent of their coupling finally hit their senses. He took great pride in knowing there would be no mistaking who Stiles belonged to.

When each of them were comfortably seated, Stiles looked around nervously. It was a far cry from what he was used to when he entertained guests when he lived in his castle. He might have felt slightly embarrassed, if not a little sullen over the fact that he didn’t have lavish foods or fine dishes to present to Derek’s family and their pack. In all actuality, the only thing he had to offer them were the scant remains of the herbs he had harvested the day prior. He bit his lip, contemplating the situation, thinking about how foolish he was feeling, when a warm hand settled on his lower back. His neck turned to look behind him, eyes settling on Derek who was staring at him with concern.

“I feel like a terrible host,” Stiles whispered. “I have nothing to feed them nor a place to properly seat them. I fear I am making a terrible first impression.” He finished in distress. Derek looked like he was about to answer, but before he could, the familiar sound of Laura’s laughter filled the air.

“Baby brother, he is too good for you.” Stiles took a second to wallow in confusion before remembering the vast amount of lore he had read on the Vilkatins. They have enhanced hearing. Stiles’ futile attempts at privacy would be pointless while sharing space with them. He was feeling horribly self conscious when Laura continued. 

“I believe I’ve already told you, do not fret on such silly things like formalities. We are a hardened people, and trivial things like solemnity are of little value to us.” She gave Stiles a playful wink, to which he smiled a little, the nerves slowly leaking from his mind. She stood from her perch, farther from the fire than all the rest, Stiles noted, and came to stand beside him and her brother.

“Relax, we are all family here. Don’t worry yourself, Prince Charming. If there is tending to be done, it should be us to you. After all, you _are_ in our kingdom, or at least, what little there is left of it.” She finished in jest. Derek wanted to roll his eyes at his sister’s flippant attitude, but he couldn’t deny the intense need to look after and protect his mate. His wolf was practically gnawing at his mind, bidding him to see to all of Stiles’ needs. It was a confusing obligation that was undeniable in its demand. So instead of dismissing Laura’s suggestions, he was actively siding with it.

Stiles wanted to protest, feeling the need to be a formal host, years of complex teachings of proper mannerisms and customs dictating his desires. However, if Laura was anything like her brother, she would not be so easily swayed. Stiles knew better than anyone that Derek was as stubborn as an ox and he could so easily see the same obstinance in his sister. He let his gaze wander to the other three werewolves, all of them were closely huddled, simple banter exchanged between them, but Stiles knew they could easily hear every word he was saying. He’d have to mind his tongue in their presence. He turned back to Laura, nodding in submission.

“Very well, I will concede. Though, we have nothing to eat. I mean, I have some deliciously healthy herbs, but there is barely any left, and by the way Derek eyes them with such disdain, I’m guessing they would not be to your wolfy-palette's liking either.” Derek was about to wholeheartedly agree when a sound twitched his ears. He thought, for a moment, that he was just being overly paranoid, but when the other four werewolves jerked their heads in the direction of the door, Derek’s claws and fangs were out in a split second, already forcing Stiles behind him. He briefly wondered why the others weren’t the least bit phased, that was, until Peter walked in with a handful of bloodied hares. He threw them out into the middle of the room, with a satisfied smirk on his face. Derek didn’t miss the way Stiles jumped a little when some blood splattered haphazardly on the floor. Nor did he miss the horrified expression on his face.

“I hope you’re all hungry. Mustn't waste good game. That would be terribly boorish of us.” Derek shifted back, the slight touch of Stiles’ hand on his back settled his earlier unease. 

Laura and Erica came forward, picking up the catch with some wonderment. They were all impressed at just how many Peter had managed to catch. More than enough to feed them all. Stiles had to turn his back when Laura and Erica began to skin and gut the large wild hares, preparing them for cooking. Isaac prepared the fireplace to cook the animals, leaving Stiles to tend to himself. 

Derek watched him preparing his own food though, and after a moment, his arms came around Stiles', shooing his hands away so that he could personally fix up his food. Before any of the others were eating, even Peter, Derek quietly saw to it that Stiles ate his own food first.

It earned him a few odd glances from Laura, as well as Peter, but the other three seemed oblivious to the strangeness of Derek’s actions. 

“Oh man this one was downright chubby!” Erica exclaimed, as she finished preparing the largest hare. Isaac snickered, looking over from the fire he had been stoking into life in the fireplace. 

“Boyd was too, before he got the Bite.” He teased to Erica. She snarled at him, eyes flashing gold for a moment. 

“He wasn’t chubby! He was firm!” Boyd watched the two argue with mild amusement on his face. Derek could tell, from the way she defended him, that Boyd was Erica’s mate. They always seemed to drift closer together than to Isaac.

“Oh is that what we’re calling it now?” Isaac barked out a laugh.

“Better than a bony twig like some blonde, noble twat I know!” Erica’s grin was pure challenge. As if he could see what was coming, Boyd took the prepared hare from Erica’s hands, a few seconds before Isaac had launched himself onto the girl. They rolled away from the fireplace, wrestling and growling in a ball of blonde hair and limbs.

Boyd laughed a little. “Watch out for the eyes, Isaac. I like those to stay where they are.” He warned in his deep, roughly accented voice. He took over Erica’s work for now, helping Laura to finishing cleaning the rabbits before tying them up to the makeshift spit over the fire.

Soon, the whole room was filled with the smell of cooking meat, and Peter had at last told Isaac and Erica to settle down. Despite his voice remaining calm and always slightly amused, the betas were quick to obey their alpha. Isaac returned to his previous spot by the fire, and Erica found herself crawling into Boyd’s lap where he quietly dusted her off.

“Derek, bring your mate over, join us.” Peter urged softly, lowering himself to sit, watching as Laura rotated the Hare’s over the fire.

Glancing to Derek, it was Stiles who took his hand and led him over to join the group. It took some urging to get Derek to sit, but before Stiles could take his own spot beside him, Derek had swept him into his lap, much the same way Erica was poised against Boyd.

“There we are.” Peter said with a smile. His grin was a little... off, but Stiles didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to be rude.

“Tell me... Uncle... What have you been doing all this time that you’ve been a pack?” Derek asked, at last. It was a question that had been pressing on his mind for a little while now.

“Undermining the Templars, naturally.” Peter replied as if it were the most obvious answer. Derek and Stiles wore matching frowns of confusion. The image they made together drew a laugh out of Laura.

“Essentially, we go around and play nasty pranks on the Templars. We steal the gold they tax from the towns people all around the kingdom and... redistribute it to it’s rightful owners. We kill as many Templar knights as we can, and we sabotage their actions.” Isaac explained, a knowing smirk on his face.

Silence filled the room as Stiles felt a strange rumbling against his back. It grew, until he realized it was Derek’s chest. Suddenly, Derek let out a howl of laughter, gripping Stiles tightly. 

“Pranks, you say?” He finally managed to get out. Craning to look over his shoulder, Stiles stared at Derek in surprise. The man had a wolfish grin on his face. “Stiles... They like to play pranks.” He said, raising his eyebrows.

Realization dawned on Stiles’ face, and he spun back around to look at the pack that stared at them curiously now.

“I am home at last!” Stiles sang out.

* * *

"Derek... Stop." Stiles whispered in a hushed tone. Night had fallen long ago, and after the overwhelming events of the day, everyone had finally bunkered down into their own corners of the ruined castle. Stiles and Derek had secluded themselves back into their own small den of a room, curled together in their nest. Stiles had been tired enough that he was ready to just pass out. But when he felt Derek's warm, bare chest slip right up against his own back, Stiles inhaled deeply. Derek was already aroused.

"Do you ever _not_ have a firm cock?" Stiles hissed under his breath. He still hadn't pushed the wolf’s wandering hands away, even though they were working on getting under his clothes.

"I'm always hard when you're near. It's quite bothersome. You need to take responsibility for the way you affect me." Derek growled firmly.

"But they'll hear!" Stiles' cheeks were turning red.

"I'll just have to find some way to keep you quiet then." Derek mused. At the same time, one large hand slid down to wrap around Stiles' own hardened length, while the other fit tightly over the prince’s mouth, to muffle his unstoppable moans and mewls of pleasure. At some point, Derek and Stiles both lost their ability to care if anyone heard. Stiles cried out freely while Derek fucked deep into him; howling his own pleasure in perfect tandem.

* * *

The very next morning, it seemed like Stiles woke bursting at the seams with ideas for the pack. New, inventive ways to mess with the templars. Even though most of the other wolves were groggy as they rose, Peter at least was attentive and deeply interested in hearing what Stiles had to offer.

“Well, I can tell at least one of you is going to be carrying your weight around here. That is... If you’ve decided that you will join the pack.” He added, the second half of his statement directed exclusively to Derek. He’d given Derek the official offer the night before, and when his nephew hesitated, he suggested the two of them talk it over that night.

“...We’ll join.” Derek agreed after a moment of last considerations. A broad grin shared between the two men, as well as a handshake finalized the acceptance, before Stiles finally let loose again, explaining the mechanics of his master plans. 

Days passed, and everyone had become better acquainted with each other. Both Stiles and Derek had gotten along well enough with the pack. Derek was still obtuse with his interactions. The only person he had truly opened up to was Laura. Not that Stiles expected anything different. Derek was still wary and particular who he gave his trust to. Though Stiles knew with time and better understanding of the others, he’d eventually get there. 

The castle had become a command center of sorts. Upon hearing in detail how the Templars had risen to power, Stiles knew that something was awry. The things that Peter and Laura had to say about the happenings of the kingdom and the surrounding cities were baffling at first, but upon further inspection, Stiles could easily tell the Templars had too much power. Something must have happened since his banishment.

There was an unspoken hierarchy that they had all easily fallen into. Stiles and Peter were at its head. Stiles was a natural planner. His childish scheming and the relentless pranks he had bestowed upon his father’s guard inadvertently made him a tactile strategist. He easily came up with ideas that he would run by Peter before issuing them to the rest of the pack.

Once, he had Isaac and Erica disguised as the same person, leading a gang of templars through the forest in a vast wild goose chase mixed with a game of keep away, trading off the bag of coins from the collected taxes between the hidden members of the pack until the templars were all separated, and picked off one by one.

Another time, Stiles had managed to convince Peter to have the others help him harvest an entire bucket full of pitch from the trees in the forest. It had taken almost a week to fill the pail, but once it was full, it was time for the weekly tax collection. Hiding amidst the trees, Boyd was the one to pour the gooey syrup on the horseback templars, and Derek only two trees down, poised to dump a bag of chicken feathers they bartered from a farmer in town. In all the confusion and flurry, Isaac managed to swing down from a rope and snag the coin bag, before smacking the horses rumps and sending them on their way back into town, laughter following and guiding them.

Things were simple, for a while. Their nights were spent in a heated frenzy, a desperate need to claim and reclaim each other. It never seemed enough. With every night that passed, Stiles felt like he needed more than the evening before, and Derek was all too happy to give it. He gave more of himself than he knew he had to offer. He wanted to give Stiles everything he had; to fill him with his seed until he was full and spilling at the brim. To drench him in his scent until in a dark room, no wolf could tell who was who. 

Their days were spent thinning out the Templars’ numbers, while attacking their strongholds and driving them out of the smaller cities. Word spread of their deeds, whispers of a mysterious group that has risen to reclaim the land rid it of oppression. 

Stiles was meticulous about everything. He spent hours upon hours plotting out efficient ways to drive out the Templars and stunt their advances. To say that the pack was impressed was an understatement. Even Derek, who was so used to Stiles’ flippant attitude and childish demeanor, was surprised at how focused his princeling had become, and how perfectly calculated his tactics were. It brought to light a whole new side of Stiles that Derek had never seen before.

That wasn’t the only thing that had begun to catch his eye. Something about Stiles was changing. Stiles’ scent had shifted to something less tangy and slightly more floral. He was constantly stretching his back and shifting his weight to alleviate an invisible pressure. Derek also noticed the exhaustion in Stiles’ eyes and his lazy movements.

Those were just the things that had changed in his _mate_.

Derek also realized his Wolf had begun to act differently as well, almost in exact accordance to Stiles. He found himself, more than once, fighting the urge to hunt with the intent to bring it back to Stiles despite the obvious fact that his prince didn’t take part in eating meat. He was becoming more irate with the proximity of others near Stiles. Derek had grown acutely particular on his scent being the only one on Stiles’ person; the presence of any other was enough to draw a snarl from his chest and an impulsive session of scent-marking and delicate manhandling. He was feeling exceedingly territorial when it came to his mate, to the point that he even had to fight off the initial reaction of attacking Laura the one time she had playfully nudged Stiles for his genius planning of a raid. It was a subtle change, the shifting of their behaviors unnoticeable for the most part.

It wasn’t until Stiles started craving odd things did Derek really begin to wonder about what was going on. Stiles didn’t even seem to truly notice it yet, the way he leaned in a little closer, or breathed in a little more deeply whenever there was meat cooking at the fireplace. He looked a little more forlorn to be eating his berries, fruits, and herbs, and the lovely vegetables that Derek had bartered for him.

It was one night where Boyd had managed to catch a Stag, that Stiles finally gave in. Leaning over to Derek’s side a little more, he watched the other eat for a long minute. 

“Can I.... Can I have a bite?” He asked quietly. Derek almost had to do a double take, staring over at his mate curiously.

“Stiles... You don’t eat meat.” He pointed out slowly, as if he were worried his prince had gone daft suddenly. Stiles pouted and fidgeted anxiously where he sat.

“I know that... But it smells good and I want to try it.” He reiterated stubbornly at last. Derek frowned more deeply, but never the less, held up a sliver of his meal for the prince to taste. Minutes later, Stiles had his own plate, and was eating quietly. As if it were truly nothing out of the ordinary. The others paid him no mind, but Derek found himself confused, and completely focused on his mate for the rest of the night. 

Two weeks had passed since the day he learned that his sister and uncle were still alive. 

Maybe he was just sensitive and over-analyzing everything? No, Derek knew better, and although he didn’t know exactly what it was that had taken hold of them, he was very much aware of its presence. The behaviors, the scents, the state of his mind-- it all reminded him of something that he couldn’t quite recollect. Even if his wolf was in a state of constant bliss at the sight and scent of their mate, Derek had grown cautious; the apprehension he felt tugged at his mind while he tried to unravel the mystery that had captivated them both. He took solace in the dubious thought that this was just how the newly mated worked. Only, his assumptions couldn’t have been further from the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another big thanks to [coldbones](http://archiveofourown.org/users/coldbones/pseuds/coldbones), [Cempagaldre](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Cempagaldre) and [saintdoriangray](http://archiveofourown.org/users/saintdoriangray/pseuds/saintdoriangray) for betaing! Love you guys!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was re-edited/beta'd after it was initially posted. Sorry for the confusion. Everything stayed the same, only some things became more clear. Feel free to read it again. I apologize for prematurely uploading this chapter. 
> 
> A huge thanks to [saintdoriangray](http://archiveofourown.org/users/saintdoriangray/pseuds/saintdoriangray) for being the best editor we could ever ask for, and totally calling me out on my semicolon abuse. (oops) Love you, Doodalood!

Morning came far too quickly. Derek was trying desperately to chase his dreams back into the depths of unconsciousness. For the first time in weeks, he truly thought he would wake on his straw bed back in the tiny shanty when he lived in Belirti. The coldness of his furred nest was enough to remind him of those days; waking up alone. The smell of Stiles saturated the air, though, and the realization that he was indeed without company, woke him the rest of the way. Jolting up, eyes wide as he looked around in a mindless panic, he saw that not only was his mate missing from his side, but his clothes and shoes were as well.

Not another soul was awake inside the castle yet. Derek sat there for a few seconds more, counting all the different people he could hear, by the beating of their hearts and the intake of their breaths. None of them had Stiles’ unique rhythm. Derek frantically leapt from bed, slipping on his breeches and tunic, before grabbing his sword and running out of the castle bare-foot. It took a moment of standing stock-still with his nose turned up to the air to catch the trail of Stiles’ scent. It was coming from the tree-line to the south. Derek felt his heart lodge behind his adam’s apple.

“Stiles...” He whispered, nostrils flaring as he drew in one more deep breath. He took off running into the depths of the forest, following the trail. A familiar trail, at that. It only took him minutes to stagger to a stop. Thirty yards ahead of him, Derek came upon the stream they visit to draw their freshwater, and where they laundered their garments. In the middle of the water, Stiles stood, naked as the day he was born. The gleam of his pale skin was enough to soothe Derek's worries. The early morning sunlight, filtering in through the leafy canopy above, cast dazzling speckles of gold light on his mate’s wet flesh. For a long moment, Derek stood, completely transfixed by the vision before him. A point came, though, where he could watch no longer. He set his sword gently aside to lean against an old oak tree. His shirt, and unlaced breeches slipped from his body easily enough. He walked barefoot down to the water’s edge. 

Ankle deep at first. Derek was pleasantly surprised that the water wasn’t distastefully cold. With the last hints of summer upon them, autumn now showing in plants all around, the waters had not yet cooled to the point in which they were unbearable. Silently, Derek waded into the middle of the river. All around them, the world was slowly waking. Birds called out in whistling song that harmonized so beautifully with the soft trickle of water over stone. Even with the soothing sounds of life around them, Derek felt like it was too quiet. He wanted to hear the sound of his mate’s voice-- a sound he’d grown very accustomed to.

Derek’s hands hooked onto Stiles’ hips, and his lips pressed tenderly to his prince’s neck. For only the briefest of moments, Stiles tensed and inhaled deeply. Then, the tension in his muscles released, and he leaned back against Derek’s chest. His eyes slipped closed for a bit, allowing himself to sink into the other’s warmth.

“I woke alone, and thought you’d finally come to your senses and fled from my bedside.” Derek whispered against Stiles’ ear. His lips grazed the curve of flesh in such a way that it made his lover tremble. Stiles scoffed gently, and his chin tilted up, while his head cocked to the side-- an offering of his pale throat that pleased Derek deeply. Taking the proffered flesh between his teeth, Derek sucked at that spot until a fresh bruise blossomed at his command. Stiles whimpered.

“I was filthy, and you were too. I figured the only way I could lure you out of the castle long enough for a real bath would be to literally _lure_ you here. So I did. And it would seem as though I’ve succeeded,” The prince teased. Derek laughed and leaned forward a little more, to press his lips against Stiles’ own.

“I could have told you how useless that idea was. I’m only going to get us both even more filthy than before.” Derek warned. 

“Maybe I was anticipating that?” Stiles returned in an almost sharp tone. Derek could smell something in his flesh. Stiles’ heart was working a little faster, his pupils dilated just a bit... _pheromones_. That’s what Derek smelled. Stiles was aroused, and the idea that he could already be this horny without so much as a touch between the two of them-- Derek growled deeply and, quite suddenly, Stiles was pressed against the rock-like wall of the river banks.

“Then, congratulations.” Derek groaned, pressing his bare member against Stiles’ ass. He was already starting to harden, and the contact sped it up. Stiles ground back against Derek, hips jutting backwards to keep his own tender manhood away from the rocks in front of him. 

“What, are you just going to rub against me till you’re done?” Stiles goaded smartly. His voice was low, and thick; _wanting_. Derek responded predictably to the comment, hips surging forward in a more violent thrust, while his hand came down to cup Stiles’ intensely hot length.

“Of course not. I’m going to impale you on my dick and fuck you until you can’t walk. I’ll have to carry you back home,” he threatened. Derek felt Stiles’ cock physically throb against his palm. Smirking to himself, the werewolf lowered his grip, gently tucking his fingertips behind Stiles sack to roll Stiles’ fragile orbs between his digits.

“Derek...” Stiles breathed out, standing on the tips of his toes. Or at least, he tried to, his feet precariously balanced on slippery river-rock. “Don’t tease me... Please. I need you in me.” Derek groaned again, pressing his mouth against the nape of his mate’s neck. Stiles’ hair was damp, and smelled of river against his nose. The short hairs tickled at him, but he only sniffed again and again. 

“Oh, you can tease me all you please, but when it’s my turn it’s too much.” Derek sighed, nosing up along the prince’s scalp. His free hand reached down as well, wormed around Stiles’ front, but dipping further back between his legs. The wolf’s cock was pressed firmly between the two halves of Stiles’ ass, so he wasn’t eager to pull away. Instead, he strained his arms and pressed his fingers into Stiles from the front. Even as he pushed two digits into his mates well-used hole, Derek palmed at him, teasing Stiles taut balls. Inside of Stiles body, Derek was surprised to find him still slick with his cum-load from the night before, lingering within him where Derek felt it belonged. “Fuck.” He gasped softly, realizing his seed was trapped deep within his mate.

Stiles whined, shifting his hips on Derek’s fingers. It knocked the prince out of his revery. Derek slid his fingers out, using his hand to grip Stiles’ thigh, lifting it up to a higher perch so that Stiles was spread open to him.

“Brace yourself, love. I’ve no patience to be sweet with you this morning.” He warned, giving one last kiss, using up what little restraint he had left. A backwards tilt of his hips had Derek’s cock dropping forward. A shallow forward thrust had the head battering against the back of Stiles’ sack and his own fingers. A few more directionless thrusts like that passed before a steadying hand gripped the base of Derek’s cock.

Their coupling had become so common that when Derek pressed against Stiles’ hole, the other’s body opened up in response, taking him in easily. Derek thrust in after he’d sunk to the half-way point, rooting his cock to the hilt inside his mate. Stiles cried out, fingers scrabbling at the rocks. With a deep grunt, Derek leaned back. Both of his hands fixed themselves around Stiles’ trim waist while Derek began to fuck up into him over and over again-- rutheless, relentless, but not selfish. Derek was constantly aware of his angle, and his lover’s body language. 

He increased his speed a little more when Stiles’ whimpers turned into encouraging moans. Derek howled out in satisfaction when Stiles finally let go and began to truly cry out in pleasure. Their bodies were one. They had been one for weeks. It gave Derek a hot, smug feeling of pleasure to realize that he was, and would be, the only to ever know Stiles so intimately. He knew how to tear his boy apart with the few strokes of a button. 

“Fu-fuck Stiles.... Prince, you feel.... Mnn... So good on me.... I love you. I love you. I l.... lo... Fuck. Iloveyouuu....” He breathed out in tense, stunted words. 

The water around their moving hips slapped and sloshed loudly, echoing along with their mutual cries of enjoyment. Stiles had no intentions of lasting long, so when he felt the knot of tension in his gut squeeze more, he shoved a hand down to press the heel of his palm against the underside of his dick. It was just what he needed. With a deep twitch, Stiles abdominal muscles started to convulse as he came, screaming out Derek’s name where it reverberated off every surface in the forest. The falling splatters of his orgasm clouded the waters around them, milky white for only a few seconds before the evidence of it dissipated completely. 

Derek’s movements slowed minutely after Stiles’ release, but only so that he could pause long enough to withdraw and turn Stiles around. Wrapping the prince’s legs around his waist, his cock shoved right back into the tightness of his mate. With a deep, searching kiss, Derek finally allowed himself to shudder and quake, fighting to keep his knot back. Once the initial burn was gone, Derek exploded with a trembling moan, his arms gripping onto his mate for dear life. Burying his face against Stiles chest, Derek sucked down multiple deep breaths and relaxed.

* * *

They made their way back to the ruined castle. Derek snuffled at Stiles’ neck with an easy grin while Stiles giggled freely, playfully batting him away. By the time they reached the old Tactical Study inside the ruined keep, Stiles’ jovial laughter was bouncing through the halls. All too suddenly, they were crowded by a very frantic Isaac.

Just the day before, Isaac and Boyd had gone to the outlying town of Haverdell to intercept a tax transfer. The Argents had been trying to catch them off guard by switching towns they routed through to get to Belirti safely with their sacks of gold coin. They hadn’t counted on the fact that their pack had connections with all of the towns. The moment something happened, they got word. It had been an overnight trip, and the two young wolves weren’t expected to be back until well into the afternoon that day. 

Before he knew what he was doing, Derek was already putting himself in front of Stiles. When Isaac had gotten too close, Derek’s warning growl had him withering in fear, but he stood fast. Shifting and anxious, laboured from his rush. 

“Stiles! The-- The Arch Bishop Argent has released a Holy Decree!” He said, sucking in lungfuls of air. He must have been running for a while. The prince knew well enough now that the Vilkatis had impeccable stamina. If the young werewolf was out of breath, it surely meant he had been exerting himself far more than a mere human could handle. Boyd hadn’t caught up yet. Isaac must have run ahead, being the faster of the two. Derek only regarded the other man with a scowl, unrelenting in his place in front of his mate. Stiles rolled his eyes, the motion unseen by his knight while he peeked out from Derek’s side.

“And?” He prompted. “I fail to see how this is of any importance to me.” Isaac stilled and controlled his troubled breath before continuing.

“It is said that the King, your father, has been compromised by the Great Demon, much like his son and that he is incurable! He is to be put to death and the kingdom will fall under rule of the Church until a new, Holy King can be appointed.” Stiles’ blood ran cold, and he could have sworn in that moment his heart had turned to stone. A firm hand on Stiles’ wrist grounded him enough to the point of him finding his voice.

“Are-- How are you certain?” The prince asked as he pushed around Derek to stand in front of him now. He had to hear Isaac’s assuredness despite the fact that he already innately knew it was the truth. Something in his gut and instinct told him that this was not above Argent. In fact, he was almost disappointed with himself that he hadn’t anticipated it.

Lately, he had been indulging Derek’s more _aggressive_ pleas to remain safely at the castle during their recent raids and dastardly shenanigans. A request that Stiles had been more than adamant about ignoring at first, but Derek was quick to thoroughly quell his defiance with the hard thrusts of his cock, or the ravishing heat of his mouth. The man had a maddening talent for distraction and coercion.

In place of his physical participation in their schemes, Stiles had doubled his efforts at their headquarters. Now that he didn’t have to spend his time being the designated loud and obnoxious distraction during their raids, he could focus on improving their plans to a status just shy of perfection. He had begun to send each member of the pack out to different towns, giving the ruse that they were growing in numbers; gaining followers. As if there were more people taking arms and standing up against the templars. 

Finally, Peter made himself known from the shadows, rounding a corner with a suspicious gleam in his eye, though he made no effort to voice any concern. Not that Stiles was sparing much thought to the Alpha; he was too busy trying to control his own breathing-- the telltale symptoms of a panic attack flaring up from deep within him. Derek was quick to pull his prince back against his chest, wrapping his arms around him loosely and murmuring against his ear a calming mantra of ‘ _Breathe. Feel me and my breath and breathe with me_ ’. It worked flawlessly, as if Derek knew exactly what he needed-- and perhaps he did? Every day that passed, Stiles felt more and more connected to Derek on a deeper, more ethereal level.

Gently, Derek released his hold, running his hands up and down Stiles’ arms soothingly. His knight rubbed his nose along the back of his ear and Stiles nodded, knowing well enough that Derek was silently asking him if he was alright.

“I will see this with my own eyes.” The prince said finally. Derek was about to protest, when Stiles turned to face him.

“No.” He declared firmly, and even though it was just a simple, singular word, it carried the weight of a resolve so heavy, even Derek doubted his Vilkatin strength would be able to dislodge it.

“I will go into the towns and seek out this _decree_ for myself. You can whine all you want, but it changes nothing. My mind is made.”

* * *

Stiles left the ruined castle in haste, shrouded in his infamous blood-red cloak. Derek had been more than a little excited about presenting it to his mate. Stiles was sure to make many references to a certain fable about a young child and their cloak of red-- of who was stalked by the Big Bad Wolf. As much as his knight would feign his annoyance with the roll of his eyes or the loud huff of his breath, Stiles knew he secretly loved the parallels.

Stiles sped towards town on the swiftest horse their small company owned, his chest heaving in air that sliced by his face. His head bowed against the current, raised slightly in the saddle as he urged the mare to hasten. The hour long trip took little more than forty minutes at his pace. Only when at last the Royal City’s walls were in view did Stiles allow the laboured mount to slow first to a gallop, and then to a trot, and finally, a walk. They were both breathing hard, and anxious. Stiles could feel he’d worried the horse with his rush. Gently, he soothed her by stroking her mane and neck, feeling her muscles tight and hot from exertion. 

“Thank you.” He whispered to her, leaning forward and jumping off her back. Stiles guided her away from the path into the city, deep into the forest until he found a small stream to leash her beside. Hood raised now, he made his way back to the roads, thankful for the merchant caravan that pulled in just as he stepped back onto the hard packed dirt road. He blended in with the group of people, walking invisibly into the city walls.

He made his way into the heart of town, keeping to the alleys and back roads best he could. He knew exactly where he needed to go. In the center of the markets, there was a large post where the peoples would hang their work order and flyers. The kingdom would regularly perch their decrees there. If indeed what Isaac had said was true, the evidence would surely be there.

The apprehension was thick and suffocating as he neared the post, littered with parchment of various color and quality. The most notable being the thick, white paper stamped by the Argent’s crest in the shimmering gold wax of the Church. Stiles swallowed hard, grabbing at his hood to ensure that it was still covering his visage and approached. Then, he felt his knees weaken, nearly about to buckle beneath him.

It was true. All of it. Every last word of what Isaac had said. His father was to be put to death. Stiles wasn’t even aware of his softly muttered ‘ _no_ ’ or his slowly shaking head. Nor did he realize he was stepping further and further away from the post board. Just when he thought his legs were on the verge of giving out, he felt a presence behind him. Firm hands gripped at his slender waist, and where his mind told him to panic, his instincts willed him to relax, for he knew this presence well. Just like that very morning in the river...

Without another moment to waste on hesitation, he quickly turned and buried his face into the broadness of Derek’s chest. His own hands came up to grasp the dark fabric that his knight donned every day. In fact, he wasn’t surprised in the least that Derek was shrouded in entirely all black-- from the tattered cloak that hid his face, to the darkness of his shirt and breeches. Even the leather of his boots and belt were an inky ebony. He was like a shadow; a stark contrast from the bright light of the day.

Derek’s arms pulled Stiles in close-- hating the frantic shaking caused from his barely suppressed panic. He made a shushing sound, leaning in close to rub his cheek against the red fabric of Stiles’ hood. His ears twitched, suddenly aware of the attention that they were attracting. He gave Stiles a comforting squeeze, pulling back to catch the prince’s chin between his fingers, willing him to expose his face. He quickly placed a chaste press of lips to Stiles’ mouth.

“Come. We should linger here no longer.” His voice was soft, but strong. Stiles gave a slight nod, wiping the faint wetness from his eyes. He led the way, Derek looming behind him like a statue of fearsome presence, until they reached the crumbling out walls of the Old Kingdom.

Stiles was uncomfortably quiet. The abnormalcy of it set Derek and his wolf on edge. He wasn’t the best at comforting, but he found that all he wanted to do was burrow into his mate’s skin and chase away all his pain. He hated when Stiles’ stank of sorrow. So he let his instincts guide him, turning his prince and pulling him close to catch his mouth in a soft, coaxing tangle of tongues. Stiles moaned into his mouth which only proved to encourage Derek’s sudden hunger. What was meant to be a simple gesture of consolation had turned into an act of heated desire.

Derek indulged himself, sucking on Stiles’ tongue. Tasting the wet muscle, he let it slide between his lips as he inhaled the sticky-sweet scent of his mate’s pungent arousal. Derek wouldn’t have been able to subdue the deep rumbling that reverberated up his throat even if he wanted to. Which, for the record, he most certainly did not. Though Derek was partly a man of nobility, and thus was instilled with a refined sense of handling a circumstance properly and orderly, he was also half animal with vicious needs and urges.Yet, despite his primal desire to drag his mate into the thickness of the forest and mount him until they’re both howling out in pleasure-- to fuck into his prince until all the sadness, tension and uncertainty were purged from his skin like the sweat that would drop from his flesh. He instead caught Stiles’ bottom lip between his teeth, pulling back to let it slide between his incisors. He licked it in reprieve, softly letting his forehead rest on his mate’s.

He still didn’t have anything to say. Sorry was never good enough, and they both knew it meant little to nothing. Besides, he was always a man of few words. Even as a child, he would invest his energy, time and focus on becoming the best at his studies and swordsmanship rather than include himself in gossip or social gatherings. He enjoyed his solitude and the privacy of his mind. However, he must have done something right, for the sour stench of sorrow receded to a faint odor and the emotions flowing through their bond were those of contentment and safety.

Derek retrieved Stiles’ steed and pulled his prince up. They both settled comfortably, Stiles’ arms winding around his knight’s waist, clutching to him like a lifeline. Derek steered them back to their den quickly, though Stiles hadn’t uttered a single word the entire journey home. His mate knew what he needed.

* * *

Days went by without Stiles leaving the confines of their den. Derek would have been worried if it wasn’t for the satiated mood of his wolf. He would never outwardly admit it, but knowing that Stiles would scarcely leave the safety of their room-- it calmed something within him. 

Of course both Laura and Peter had taken notice, each of them inquiring about Stiles’ sudden shift in mood. Derek couldn’t even answer them properly, for not even he knew what was going through his mate’s mind. He often tried resorting to their bond, but it was just as confusing. Stiles’ emotions were constantly fluctuating. Distorted waves of anger, depression and frustration were garbled to the point that it gave him a headache. 

They rarely spoke during the day, and during the night, Stiles’ light touches and shy dispositions became frantic and wanton. He had taken a liking to pushing Derek on his back so he could seat himself upon his knight’s cock and ride him with a fury and desperation Derek didn’t know his prince was capable of. 

On the third day, he and the pack were going over random plans, trying to formulate a tactical movement the best they could, though none of them were even half as clever Stiles was. The sound of a heavily beating heart approached from down the hall while the tangy-floral scent that was unique to Derek’s mate permeated the air. All of the wolves turned to face the doorway, silencing their earlier argument on who would do what during their next raid.

Stiles’ form entered the doorway, his eyes red and bloodshot, jaw clenched tight and fists balled with barely contained rage. The glint of Stiles’ knife caught everyone’s attention and the room spiked with the stench of apprehension. The rest of their pack was uncertain of Stiles’ motives and had instinctively took on a posture of defence.

“We’re going to kill that bastard Argent and save my kingdom.” He finally said, words cutting through the unease in the room, dissipating the earlier air of hostility instantly. However, the one thing that caught Derek’s attention was the resolve in his mate’s eyes. His body looked plagued with exhaustion, but his entire being now had a focus, a goal.

Derek’s steps were heavy as he made his way over to Stiles. He stepped into his space and inhaled deeply, waiting. Stiles gave him a shy smile, the anger from his eyes fading away back to the comforting nature of their serenity and his entire body seemed to relax. He sighed, but Derek made no move to touch like he so desperately craved. Suddenly, his mate stank of guilt and that made Derek’s stomach lurch.

“I-- Um. I’m sorry for being so distant. It’s just that, well you know! And then my father and-- hmmph” Derek’s lips caught Stiles’, frantically seeking out the taste of his mouth; tongue sliding in to feel every curve and crevice. His mate fell into his chest and Derek wasted no time in wrapping his arms around him in a possessive hold. Reluctantly, he pulled back. Their lips stuck together teasingly for a moment as they parted and Derek buried his face into the crook of Stiles’ neck.

“It matters not. I’m only glad that you are well.” He said against his mate’s skin. Stiles hummed in contentment as he smiled. One of Derek’s hands came from around Stiles’ back and laid out flat over his mate’s stomach, resting their out of some unexplainable internal need. Just then, Laura audibly cleared her throat.

“As relieved as I am that you are feeling better, I am most curious on how you expect us to overtake your kingdom?” she asked. The rest of them placed their gazes upon the prince and his knight, and suddenly, Stiles was feeling a little self-conscious. He had been planning out the attack meticulously for days to the point where he bordered on insanity, but thinking about it now, the risks that they’d all be taking-- he felt selfish. Selfish for asking them to do this for him.

He thought that maybe he could retract his statement and rescue his father on his own, but almost as if he sensed it, Derek placed a kiss on his neck and the arm that was wrapped around his back pulled him closer to his strong chest.

“Do not falter,” he said softly. “I will follow you anywhere, no matter the danger.” Stiles’ heart clenched. Despite knowing that it was true, it was different to hear it fall from Derek’s mouth. It made it far more intimate. Stiles nodded numbly, clearing his throat. When Derek pulled back, Stiles moved forward to address the rest of his pack, though, his knight was quick to place himself behind him, once again holding his mate against the strength of his chest and enveloping him in his arms, settling his hands on his prince’s stomach. It was almost as if he was afraid that Stiles would vanish if he didn’t hold him close. Though he didn’t know why, another need had him fascinated with the feel of Stiles’ stomach under his fingers.

“Well, I won’t lie, it is perilous. I would take no offense if any of you wish to stay behind. I will not think badly of you.” He was surprised to hear Laura’s scoff, to see Peter roll his eyes and the offended faces of the other three.

“Stiles, please.” Peter said. “As if we’d let you do this alone. I was under the impression you thought better of us.” Stiles sighed, smiling a little brighter than before. Indeed, he knew they would not abandon him in his greatest time of need. However, to see their own resolve, almost as steeled as his own, he felt like everything had finally shifted into place. These people, his pack, they were his family now. Knowing that, it made placing his trust in them easier.

“Yeah, Little Prince. As if we’d let a human go and do all the hard work when there’s six able and willing werewolves who could get it done in half the time.” Laura teased. Her smile warmed him a little. Truly, he loved her as if she were his own sister.

“Very well,” Stiles started, grinning a little as he came in closer to the makeshift table, “This is how we shall proceed...”

* * *

Stiles’ plan, as expected, was flawless. Everyone listened diligently as he ran through various scenarios and hidden paths. It was relatively straightforward, and although the strategy was simple, the danger was paramount. Knowing this, Derek began formulating his own plans.

It took several days to get everything ironed out, and as each night passed, their behavior evolved as well. Derek’s sense of protection had increased exponentially. It was to a point of near-desperate control. Never was there a time that Stiles and he were apart; always trailing behind his mate like a deathly shade, an omen of danger and protection. All of the other wolves had quickly caught on to Derek’s newfound aggressive nature. None of them dared to even come within arm’s length of Stiles.

They hunted almost hourly, much to Derek’s request, for his wolf was edging him further to prove their worth in the form of providing for their mate. Often times, he overindulged his inner beast where it flickered to the surface, crowding Stiles to ensure his scent was prevalent, rubbing a hand down his prince’s arm or neck. More often than not he preferred a quick fucking to ensure his seed permeated from every last pore of his mate’s skin. He was overly agitated when Stiles wasn’t nestled safely in their den and had begun to see anything and everything as a threat to his prince.

Stiles had also started to exhibit strange behaviors. His taste for animal flesh had become almost exclusive, abandoning his preference for plant based foods entirely. The exhaustion behind his eyes was a dark and trivial thing, often times forcing him to nap for hours. His moods were fickle, at best. One moment he would be smiling and laughing, the perfect picture of jovial, then the next, surly and irritated or sometimes downright gloomy. There were many a times he would seek out the comfort of his knight, despite there being absolutely no reason. He felt the need to touch; the reassurance that he was still there-- all of which the prince had begun to become increasingly conscious of.

Their peculiar conduct came to a culmination the eve of the rescue mission. Derek had crowded Stiles against a wall on the way back to their den, his mind bustling with worry. His hands found their place on slender hips as he leaned in and claimed his prince’s mouth. Stiles moaned into him, his flailing limbs placated; fingers digging into Derek’s dark tunic. When he pulled away, Stiles was a breathless mess, slumped against the dirty, cold stone. Derek’s eyes slowly illuminated electric blue as he bore his gaze deep into his mate’s.

“You will not join us tomorrow,” he stated. “I won’t allow it.” Momentarily confused, Stiles’ face hardened, pushing away from Derek and steeling himself.

“Have you gone daft? This is _my_ father and _my_ kingdom. You will not deny me this.” 

Derek growled low, his fangs springing free of their own accord. It was clearly not the answer he had been seeking, but he would be a fool to think that Stiles would back down so easily. It was something he usually admired; a strong and commendable trait in a mate, but not on this. He was more than adamant that his prince would come to no harm. The thought had weighed heavy on his mind these past few nights. Dreams of his mate burning to ash with no one to save him. He wouldn’t lose Stiles. _He wouldn’t_.

The wolf within him bristled. Most times Stiles’ stubborn will was amusing, like a game they’d play. However, truth be told, Derek’s wolf was a dominating presence both inside and outside of his mind. It demanded obedience and would do what was needed to be done to achieve that end. Only, looking into the fierce determination in his mate’s eyes, he knew this was a battle he was quickly losing ground on. His aggravation swelled, and before he knew it, he was gnashing his teeth in a snarl. His fist slammed into the wall beside Stiles’ head, shattering the wall to a cloud of dust as debris puffed into the air. The sudden spike of fear only served to irk Derek more, his wolf fully emerging to the surface, morphing his face to its bestial form.

“Damnit, Stiles! ” He yelled. “You think I don’t understand what it’s like to lose your father and your kingdom? I won’t lose you, too! There are things more important than hate!”

The stench of fear absolved completely, replaced by the bitter scent of grief. Stiles’ face softened slowly as his head hung low. Derek’s anger seeped away, the realization of his words finally registering. The sheer rawness of their truth was more than he usually let show. A clawed hand lifted to Stiles’ chin, gently catching it to lift his face up. Ducking down, Derek did his best to meet his mate’s eyes.

“Stiles. I’m sor--”

“No. You’re right. I’m the one who should be apologizing. I forget that I am not alone in this now.” He said, letting himself lean into the warmth of Derek’s chest. His own arms came up to latch around his knights neck; one hand carding its way through the back of Derek’s head, gently holding onto his dark locks of hair. Resting his head on the wolf’s shoulder, he closed his eyes and felt himself relax.

“I was wrong in what I said. I am yours and you are mine. I should have said _our_. I did not mean to insinuate you don’t have importance in this.” Stiles’ voice was soft as he lifted his head and let his mouth graze the corner of his knight’s lips. “And I know you worry for me, but I will be safe, I can assure you of that. I have not only you to protect me, but also our pack.” 

Derek sighed, but let his head fall into the crook of Stiles’ neck, inhaling deeply, calming his wolf enough to bury his anger, though his form still stayed bestial. He couldn’t help the low whimper that fell from his mouth, nor could he stop the need to snuffle and lick at his mate’s neck. As if this was their last chance, Derek ushered Stiles back into their little den for one more night of exhaustive lovemaking.

* * *

Once again, morning arrived quicker than Stiles would have liked. It seemed like lately, he simply could not harbor enough sleep. He craved it like it was air at some points in the day-- none more than the mornings when he roused. Today, he had reason for slipping from bed early. He had barely even allowed himself to rest, for fear that he’d sleep too long. His thoughts had gotten so far from him in the night that he’d almost considered getting the jump on Derek, and leaving before his mate could slip away and leave him behind first. 

Just as Stiles reached the horses, he heard voices coming up behind him. Laura and Peter. They shot him knowing smiles, as they started tending to their own mounts.

“Dammit...” Stiles breathed out, not even a sound. 

“I told them you might try to sneak out first.” Derek said, before yawning, as he staggered over. He was already half dressed in his armor, though his eyes were still riddled with sleep and his hair tousled into a mess.

“You know me well, Black Wolf,” Stiles grumbled, tightening the straps on his saddle with muffled anger. 

“Yes, I do. Now stop pouting, and aid me with my armor,” Derek muttered gruffly, slipping on his back and chest-plate over his head and holding out the laces to Stiles.

In less than twenty minutes, Erica, Isaac, and Boyd had joined them, and prepared their horses. The time came when they all began readying themselves to set out. Stiles checked his provisions and tightened the belt that held his dagger. He hoisted the hood of his red cloak over his head and made to mount his steed, when Derek’s vice grip had the prince stilling his body.

“I don’t suppose I can convince you to stay,” he grunted. Stiles sighed, turning to face his knight.

“You could try, but it would be a fruitless endeavor,” he replied, sporting a smirk. Derek’s frown only settled deeper.

“Oh come now, don’t look so sour. We both know I’m the intelligence here. Without me, you’d all be dead in a matter of minutes.” He tried at jesting-- only, Derek growled and his other hand came up to catch Stiles’ free arm. His knight loomed further into his space, eyes flaring icy blue.

“This isn’t a game,” Derek said. “The possibility of death isn’t a vague notion, it is a stark reality that we may face this day. Do you not see that?”

Stiles’ mouth ran dry as he watched his mate’s face flicker to something more concerned. He didn’t refute it, it wasn’t like he impulsively felt the need to, mostly because he knew it was true, and no amount of childish teasing would change that. Stiles could feel Derek’s distress, his anxiety and fear flowing through their bond--which is why he let his hands reach out to lay on the coldness of his knight’s dark armor, leaned into his space and pressed his lips to the Black Wolf’s. It was chaste and simple, but in it held a thousand meanings. Pulling back slowly, he offered a small smile.

“I believe I told you once, that I survive on pure luck alone. Trust me again and I shall be your luck this time as well, just as I was all those days in the Crucible.” Something changed then, through the bond and through Derek’s eyes. They seemed placated and softer than he’d ever seen them before. Even the harsh grip of his knight had loosened to just a tender hold. His face grew gentle, brows lax and mouth parting ever so slightly. But as quickly as it surfaced, it was tamped back down.

Derek stepped away from Stiles’ space, removing his hold entirely, nodding.

“Fine. But you stay behind me and in between the others at all times. You will not deviate from the pack and you will _not_ , under any circumstance, do anything reckless. Am I clear?” He ordered swiftly.

The prince scoffed, bringing a hand to his chest to add to the theatrics of his mock offense. “As if I’d ever. Really, Derek. I _am_ a Prince. I would think nothin--”

“Stiles,” Derek cut in quickly, giving him a stern look that allowed no argument. Stiles could only pout under the scrutiny of his knight’s piercing glare.

“Fine. Yes, yes. As you wish. I will _behave_.” He didn’t waste any more time, quickly mounting his horse and straightening his hood. He looked over to his mate and gave him a dashing smile. Only, Derek knew that particular smile only spelt trouble.

“Last one to the kingdom has to rub the winner’s feet for a month!” he called out, winking to Derek and dashing off without a second glance.

* * *

It honestly hadn’t taken very long for their motley group of vigilantes to reach Belirti’s outskirts. As they came down the only road in and out of town, Stiles felt a chill crawling up his spine. Something was very wrong, but he couldn’t put a finger on it. About two hundred yards from the city’s gates, they paused, and regrouped, going over the plans again. 

“Boyd?” Stiles asked, looking to the tall, dark man who Erica was currently clutching to for as many minutes as she could. They’d soon be separated.

“The hidden entrance behind the Cathedral,” he replied bluntly. That’s where he was stationed. Stiles had posed before, that if Argent suspected his plan to kill the King would possibly go awry, he would most likely sneak out the back of the Cathedral with the King in tow. Boyd was the best candidate for the task, being the biggest of them all. He could easily slow the templars down if it came to that.

“Isaac? Erica?” Stiles asked next, his eyes flickering to the two blondes. Isaac shifted uneasily, as if he were uncertain about this whole operation.

“Flanking the East side of town, working our way to the center,” Erica replied nonchalantly.

“Laura?” Stiles moved on quickly, feeling like they didn’t have much time.

“Peter and me, to the West of town, working our way to the center,” she replied, giving him an encouraging smile. Peter remained silent, though he nodded, arms folded across his chest.

“And Derek and I....” Stiles started, but his mate paused him, hand on his shoulder.

“Will take the central path, a straight shot to the town center,” he finished. 

For a long moment, they all fidgeted, making shifting eye contact until at last Peter sighed, and rolled his eyes. “What? Are we going to have a group hug and a prayer circle? Come now. Let’s get this over with,” he grumbled. 

Boyd was the first to enter the city. Counting fifteen marks under his breath, Stiles nodded to the Isaac and Erica. Erica gave a mock salute and grabbed Isaac’s arm, tugging him into the city. 

Another fifteen seconds and Laura ducked in to kiss Derek and Stiles’ cheeks, dancing away after Peter when her brother snarled viciously at her for her infringement on Stiles’ space. She just mischievously wiggled her fingers at the two of them before turning, and pulling her hood up. 

Finally, taking fifteen deep, calming breaths, Stiles reached out and wrapped his hand tightly around Derek's forearm, heading into the place he had once called home. He was more inclined to label it ‘ _Hell_ ’ now.

* * *

“... I don’t like this,” Stiles finally said as they walked along the deserted streets. It was eerie. Scary. “There’s no way the city would be this-- _calm_ \--with the King’s execution today.” He breathed out, feeling like if he spoke too loud, it would break the spell of silence. He almost felt like, if he was quiet enough, he’d be able to hear Erica laughing somewhere in the maze like roads.

Reaching the city center, where almost all of the executions always took place, Stiles felt an even stronger wave of pure _wrongness_ roll over him, a powerful feeling of nausea accompanying it.

“What’s going on...” he breathed out, looking around. Erica and Isaac had just emerged from the East crossroad, and moments after, Laura and Peter came from the West. It was like they were the only living beings in the entire city.

“ _It’s a trap!_ ” 

Everyone’s heads snapped north. Boyd’s deep voice was like a frantic clap of thunder where he called out. He was running to them, cloak billowing behind. He already had blood on his hands.

“It’s a trap! The execution is in the Arena, and the place is swarming with Templars! They wanted to lure you there where you couldn’t escape. I heard some templars in the Cathedral speaking about it! We have to leave!” He was breathing hard. All of them had hurried forward to meet Boyd. Peter and Laura exchanged worried looks, while Erica’s hands were frantic on Boyd’s flesh, making sure he was whole.

Stiles let out a low growl in his throat that impressed even Derek.

“Thinks he can trick me, does he? Argent is not from Belirti. He’s a fool to believe he knows this city better than I.” He snapped, and pushed his way through the tightly positioned group of wolves, stalking up the unguarded stairs into the castle. Derek was hot on his tail, slowly followed after a moment of hesitation by the others.

“I- Didn’t he hear me?” Boyd asked in confusion. “I said they were at the Arena. Not in the castle...” Erica shrugged a little, and pulled him along, bringing up the rear of the pack.

Argent had pulled out all the stops. He had literally placed every Templar he could spare, positioning them in the Arena. Stepping into the castle, there was one single guard standing within the huge double doors. He was startled to see the supposedly dead Prince. 

“....Markel...” Stiles said softly, his eyes imploring as he looked at the man. Markel had been a palace guard since Stiles could remember. He’d lost track of how many pranks he’d played on the man, and how many things he’d learned from him.

“My Prince--” Markel started, before stopping himself, and closing his eyes. “If my Prince were here, I’d be obligated to stop him, but it seems I’ve closed my eyes for a long minute's rest.” He said loudly, his voice suggestive. Stiles grinned and grabbed Derek’s hand, yanking him to follow as he ran passed. 

“I owe you, Markel.” Stiles whispered, as he took a sharp left, running down the halls towards the Lower Stairs. It was a winding staircase that took them down into the sub-basement level. The Old Prisons. These were never used anymore, so they were dark and dank, musty with stagnant air. Stiles couldn’t see in this darkness, but he knew someone who could.

“Derek. I need you to guide me over to the far wall. The cell at the end, on the left. We need to get inside there,” he explained. He gripped onto his wolf’s armored bicep, and held tight as they walked into the dungeons. Cursing a little when he’d run into the bars, Stiles squirmed into the empty cell. He felt his way to the wall, his fingertips mapping over the stones.

“Back... when the Arena was first built, it was a Lion’s Pit for executing prisoners. The Kingdom didn’t trust transferring its prisoners in the open--” He grunted and paused, as he gripped a slightly protruding brick and worked on it, yanking it out slowly, inch by inch. Finally, Boyd reached over and pulled it the rest of the way out. Stiles blindly felt along the back of the stone, and withdrew an old, iron key.

“They built this tunnel to transfer them safely to the Arena.” Stiles suddenly reached his arm into the empty hole left by the removed brick. After fumbling around with the key for a few moments, his face lit up and there was a loud, audible click of a lock turning over. He withdrew his hand, and gently pushed the stone wall. It swung open with a loud, aching creak. 

“Argent won’t know about this tunnel. The Lion Pits were before his time, before even my father’s. I only know of it from stories the old guards used to tell-- from Markel,” he explained. Peter took the lead, followed by Laura. Derek was behind her, with Stiles clutching his cloak for guidance. Isaac, Erica, and Boyd brought up the flank, and they walked in a slow, easy single file line. After a few minutes of walking, they reached a door at the end of the tunnel. It was sealed shut, though it was feeble; the wood rotten and bug-eaten from decades of neglection. Three solid kicks from Peter’s boot had the hinges torn off the wood, the panel crashing forward and knocking over a barrel filled with practice weapons.

Stiles practically fell out behind Derek, blinking the Light Blindness from his eyes. He’d grown so accustomed to the dark so quickly, that it took a long moment for his vision to adjust again. When he could finally see, he squinted and looked around, narrowing in on a commotion in one of the open holding cells not far away. He felt like the breath had been sucked from his lungs. He managed to find the wind in him to cry out.

“ _Scott!_ ” he screamed, starting forward. He didn’t get more than a couple steps forward, before Boyd hooked an arm around him, holding him back.

Derek and Peter were already in the cell. The Templar who had been about to kill Scott for trying to escape was using his best friend as a human shield. Both Derek and Peter were half-wolfed out, gnashing their teeth at the soldier who was obviously frightened, but holding his ground.

From where Stiles stood, he couldn’t see much, but what he did see didn’t look good. Derek and Peter attacked, and although the Templar screamed loudly, Stiles could hear Scott’s own voice crying out in pain.

“ _Scott! Be careful! Don’t hurt him!_ ” Stiles strained against Boyd. Whatever had happened though, it was over, and the Templar was dead. Peter was supporting Scott a little as they left. They stepped far away from the fresh corpse. Stiles finally got free of Boyd and rushed forward, checking his friend over. He couldn’t find any fatal looking wounds, nothing visible at least. 

“Scott.... Goddess I thought.... I...”

“Stiles, you can’t be here.” Scott hissed, looking around suspiciously at Stiles’ gang of misfit wolves. “It’s a trap, and...”

“Scott, I can’t explain, okay, there’s not time.”

“No shit, Stiles. They’re hanging your father in ten minutes. At the stroke of seven, the Holy Hour,” he explained, grabbing the other’s shoulders. “If you don’t leave now, they’ll hang you too,” he urged. Stiles let out an exasperated sigh and grabbed Scott’s wrists, lowering his hands. 

While they spoke, Derek quietly searched the Templar they had killed in the cell. There was nothing of importance on him. Half hidden amidst the straw, beneath his feet, Derek saw the glint of metal. With an unnecessary grunt, he shoved the body aside and his eyes widened. Fingertips wrapped around the shaft of his battle glaive. It would seem as though this soldier had picked it up and begun using it for his own...

“I understand that, Scott, but I have to save my father. My friends here... They’re different, strong. With them, we have a chance. You should go. Take the tunnel back through, and gather your things. Flee from the city, and wait for me in Haverdell,” Stiles instructed. Scott searched his friend's face for a long moment before shaking his head.

“No. I won’t leave you. I won’t let you slip away again, Stiles. I’m your best friend, and you’re mine. I’ll stick by you.” 

Stiles wanted to tell him what folly he spoke of, but he knew that his puppy-like friend was just as stubborn as he on the best of days. Glancing over his shoulder, Stiles motioned Isaac over. 

“Isaac, this is Scott. I want you, Erica, and Boyd to protect him. He’s important to me, and too dumb to leave,” he grunted, and shook his head. Isaac nodded and handed Scott one of the old practice swords from the ground, pulling him aside to talk to him. Stiles sighed, plopping down onto one of the benches, and let his head fall into his hands.

“This is such a mess,” he groaned, and wasn’t that an understatement. He felt overwhelmed, to say the least. Here he was, a banished prince, killing off the templars of his own kingdom. It seemed so easy in his mind, but to see it happening in front of him-- it made him sick to his stomach. He knew he couldn’t rest just yet, though. His father would soon be dead. He only had about eight minutes before the trial and he knew he had to act quickly, but his whole body already felt tired. He felt completely spent of most his energy and he hadn't even done anything yet. Suddenly, he found himself filling with doubt-- an emotion he had no right to feel. He was supposed to be strong-- for Derek, their pack and now even for Scott. Except, in those last, crucial moments, his head was threatening to explode. He was barely suppressing the urge curl around himself and forget the world. He groaned again, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly.

There was a loud creak and the subtle shifting of the bench. It was enough to entice Stiles' curiosity, spreading his fingers so he could peak through. His gaze landed on Derek, only, the sight of him stilled his breath.

His mind had already begun to piece everything together from the angle he was viewing the room, to the way the light caught his knight's figure. Even the distance from their seating to the door…he knew this spot intimately. It was _their_ spot. It was the very same bench they had spent countless days conversing, stealing glances at one another and jesting playfully-- hiding their smirks and shy smiles-- all of it started here. Looking at Derek now, perched in his spot, armor shining dully in the dimly lit room, he couldn’t help but feel like he was stolen back to another time. Back before things were complicated. Before...

No. This was his reality now and he wouldn’t trade it for anything. They’d both come so far since those days of slowly falling for one another and now they had each other. Derek was his and he was Derek’s.

As though his knight knew what he was thinking, he offered Stiles a simple grin, one which the prince returned all too quickly.

“Hi...” Stiles uttered quietly, and it felt just like before, just like the first time he said it. Derek only raised a brow, nonplussed by Stiles completely, but his prince just carried on. His earlier anxiety had faded away almost completely.

“So... _Black Wolf_ ,” He stated in a sly voice, letting the nickname roll off his tongue boldy. “I think I made good on my promise. What say you?” he asked. Derek could only raise his brow further, if that was possible. Though, somehow those impossible brows seemed to bend the rules of reality. Stiles only laughed at his knight’s confused face.

“I believe I told you that I would make a friend of you yet, only, I think I overshot quite a bit. Though, I should point out that I’m quite content with where I landed.” Derek took a second to try to understand and all too suddenly, it came crashing back to him. He was referring to the first time they met. Here in the holding room, when Stiles so fearlessly approached the terrifying Black Wolf with the intent of forging a friendship. Derek was still only thought to be a grotesque, beast-man that the entire kingdom had shunned and hated. However, this young princeling had seen something that no other had the eye to see. The thought of it brought a smile to his lips as he looked over at his mate knowingly.

“Ah! So you _do_ remember! I knew it!” Stiles exclaimed. Derek only rolled his eyes. He reached to the side for his weapon. The movement was automatic and a painful reminder of the many times he had fought there with the intention of dying. In that moment, he silently thanked the Gods for their mercy and the gift that was his prince-- _his_ Stiles.

The second that he stood, Stiles rose to his feet as well, catching his wrist carefully. Derek watched curiously as his prince reached into the pocket of Derek’s trousers, fingers confident and searching. The prince let out a pleased noise, pulling from his knight’s pocket the very same tattered handkerchief he had been given during their first meet here. Derek never left without it on his person.

Stiles looked at the fabric, now worn, frayed and stitched. It had long lost its vibrant sheen, but Derek was surprised to see Stiles’ looking at it with a bright smile-- eyes fond and happy. He stepped into Derek’s space, carefully tying the fabric to his warrior’s arm in a tight double knot. His fingers lingered, grazing over the dull-red cloth slowly. Then softly, he said...

“For luck, Black Wolf. Wear it and you’ll live this day through.” The scene was far more intimate than any of the others had expected. Most of them had turned away, readying their weapons and checking their provisions. Though Stiles’s gaze was locked with Derek’s where he was peering up at his knight through his lashes. For the first time in his life, Derek felt at his weakest, but at the same time, he felt like he could shatter the world with his fists. He knew, without a doubt, he was truly in love. He would even go so far as to say that perhaps the prince was even destined for him--that Stiles was made just for Derek.

He didn’t think nor falter in grabbing his prince and pressing their lips together. His hands came up to smooth over Stiles’ cheeks, slotting their mouths together perfectly, letting his tongue rush along the other’s lips. It was hungry, yet gentle. Passionate, yet fervent. It was everything they were and would be. It was a kiss like no other, filling them up and shattering them unto the depths of oblivion. Stiles’ hands clutched onto the divots of his knight’s dark armor. They didn’t pull away until their lungs burned and their mouths were numb.

Breathlessly, Stiles fell against Derek, holding onto him for another moment before pushing away. He looked up into the eyes of the man he dreamt of spending the rest of his life with and uttered three words with as much force as he could muster.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Derek didn’t even hesitate, letting his nose fall into the crevice of Stiles’ neck, inhaling deeply and pressing a chaste kiss to the skin there. He pulled back, rising to his full height with his giant axe in hand. He braced himself and his determination.

“Now, let us reclaim your kingdom,” he voiced. He was a little surprised when Stiles laced their fingers together, giving them a firm squeeze. He smiled shyly; that private upturn of his lips that Derek knew was just for him.

“ _Our_ kingdom,” he replied sincerely, and for the first time since their meeting, Stiles led his knight out into the light of The Crucible.

* * *

There was a new intent within Stiles as he gripped Derek’s hand for one more second. As he let go, he felt his magick prickling the tips of his fingers. Was this how Derek’s hands felt, gripping the handle of his massive weapon? Stiles had noticed the return of the monstrous poleaxe. It seemed fitting that it would find its way back to him on this day of reckoning.

With Peter to their left, and Laura at their right, the Betas huddled around with Scott behind them, they walked out into the Arena’s field boldly, heads held high. For a moment a brief, silence fell over the gathered crowd before whispers began to fly, and blended together into a dull roar of incoherent sound. Stiles’ eyes were focused intently on the sight of his father standing atop the gallows. The King was ragged; His beard grown out, hair scraggly, and his clothing frayed and dirty. He’d been held prisoner for a long time now, it seemed. He looked thin. It hurt to see his once great father looking so weak and vulnerable.

Although Stiles was focused intently on the King, Derek let his eyes scan their surroundings, taking in their odds. It didn’t look good.

In the Royal Stand, Derek saw that it was not empty this time. Even though the King was down in the dirt with them, the boxed seating was full. Bishop Gerard Argent was perched at its center with his son, Christopher Argent to his right. At his left... _Oh_.

His blood ran cold and he nearly faltered a step.

 _Kate_.

There she sat, a smug grin played across her lips as she watched the scene unfolding before her in deep amusement. She was still young looking, deceptively beautiful-- a vision of everything he hated and feared. Peter’s growl rumbled out, long and low, not far away. He had seen her as well. Derek didn’t know the name of the brown haired young man sitting beside Kate. He wore the dress of a high ranking Templar and the Witch’s fingertips stroked through his hair as if he were some kind of kept pet.

Gerard rose to his feet. 

“Good, God-fearing people of Belirti. Behold. Satan has brought forth from the grave the evil spawn that has taken the visage of your Lost Prince. He has come, risen with his Beasts of Damnation, to stop our Righteous Duty which we seek to perform today. They do not want us to purify the kingdom of Demon scum!” The old man cried out, loudly, hands raised to the people around them.

“I have promised, in the name of our merciful Lord, to protect you--and I will! I will have these devils killed. They are an affront to God and to Holy men and women such as yourselves! I will bring purity o-”

“ **Gerard Argent is no man of God**.” Stiles yelled over his voice, his own strong timbre ringing out in the acoustics of the arena. “ **He is a foreign man who came here, bringing the words of a God that is not our own. He has poisoned you against each other and yourselves. He is anything but Holy. He has no authority to decide who is of God, and who is not!** ” Silence came again, but it was short lived, before Argent’s laughter rang out.

“See how desperately he lies to you? How he tries to turn you against God? This is why we must repent and beg forgiveness for suffering the presence of Satan so long in our Royal family! They must be wiped out! We must start anew! Let God appoint our Holy King!”

Stiles huffed, and rolled his eyes. “ **His own daughter is a witch and murderer. Kate Argent destroyed the old kingdom of Vilkatis. She slaughtered and burned innocent men, women and children alive while they slept. And there she sits at his left hand!** ” Stiles cried out. The worried whispers grew louder, and for a moment, as their eyes met, Stiles saw panic in Gerard’s gaze. A flicker of fear. Kate simply continued to look amused.

“They were a people plagued under the rule of Satan, much like Belirti! It was a ritual cleansing, demanded by God! She is no witch! She is an instrument of God, used to bring His cleansing, Holy wrath to the old, depraved kingdom! They got what they deserved!”

The pained, maddening roar that escaped Peter’s chest exploded throughout the arena. There would be no more small talk, it seemed, as Peter’s features contorted, and he ran for the stands. Screams rang out as he jumped from bench to bench, climbing his way to the Royal Stand. Stiles and Derek had no time to try and stop him. In the same moment, Templars swarmed the field, and Stiles broke into a mad dash for the gallows, where his father was precariously perched, noose around his neck in anticipation of his death.

Stiles could hear men dying all around him--the clang of metal on metal and the sickening thud of blades piercing flesh. Laura was in his peripheral, like a wild whirlwind of metal and black hair. Nobody could come within five feet of her. Any that did, lost a limb or their life. Most likely both. Stiles considered drawing his dagger, but there was no need.

Boyd had come forward to take Peter’s abandoned post at their side, fighting off any that came too close. Behind them, Isaac, Erica, and even Scott fought as hard as they could.

* * *

“ _Kate_!” Peter snarled as he launched himself into the box. Gerard and Chris had already fled, but Peter was tunnel-visioned on the sorceress, seeing nothing but red, and her deceptive smile.

“Peter. How nice to see you again. You look good. No, really. You’re a lot less... _singed_ than I remember.” She stated with a laugh. Matt stayed at her side, hand on the pommel of his sword, braced to draw it any moment.

“Fuck you!” Peter spat out at her, shuffling a little closer. He felt like something dark was bubbling up inside of him, a rage that was shifting... Changing him. Tainting him. His rage was affecting his wolf, and it felt... _Powerful_.

“No thanks, your nephew already gave me a taste of that Hale skill. I have to say, he was a pretty good lay, even though he was still so little. What... was he... fifteen? Has it already been ten years? Time really does fly when you’re having fun.” She tittered out another laugh. Her companion smirked, adding in a bit of a confused chuckle of his own. She rolled her eyes and set her hands on her hips. Peter started to lunge for her, but a burst of flame right in front of his face stopped him, making him scrabble backwards. She laughed, the fireball floating in front of her as she stepped closer and closer to Peter.

“Put that thing out...” Peter gasped, back pressed up against the wooden wall behind him.

“Tsk tsk.... Peter... Still afraid of a little spark?” she taunted, leaning in closer. She could see sweat beading on his forehead. “I don’t blame, you, really, I don’t. I mean, when Derek invited me in, told me about how sometimes he imagined what life would be like without any responsibility... Without a kingdom to rule someday... I was a little confused... But then I realized what he needed. What he wanted.” She licked her lips and leaned in, until she couldn’t without burning Peter or herself.

“He wanted me to save him. So I did. I fucked him, and then I burned your whole kingdom and everyone in it until they were ashes in the wind. I gave him everything he ever wanted. My body, and his freedom. Don’t you want your nephew to be happy? I mean... It only cost you your wife, and your child.” She breathed out, before smirking and planting a kiss on his forehead, then leaned back.

“Come along, Matt,” she ordered flippantly, eyes trained on the wolf in front of her just a moment longer.

Peter couldn’t move from where he sat, pinned in place by the floating ball of fire as he watched Kate and her companion walk away as if nothing had happened. Already, her words spread like poison in his mind, taking root.

* * *

Time was running out. Stiles felt like everything was moving too slowly, all around him. Sounds were dull compared to the pounding of his heart in his ears, and the heaving breaths he was gulping down as he ran forward. He cut a line across the arena like an arrow launched from a taut bow. Red streaming behind him like a whipping banner. In front of him, he could see just twenty yards away, his father staring at him. He was screaming something... 

“No! Stiles! Go! Leave!”

He heard none of it. The king’s foolish command didn’t even register in his mind.

Suddenly, his father’s body dropped through the trapdoor in the gallows. Just in the same way Stiles’ stomach felt like it dropped out of his body. 

Thinking had become another thing he could no longer do. Instead, he reacted. Raising a hand to his mouth, Stiles blew out a lungful of air across his fingertips. It stayed, caught by swirling green energy, rolling and weaving around the digits of his hand, growing in strength and intensity. Flinging his hand forward, slicing it through the air, the energy released from his fingertips. A sharp blade of air flew forward to slice through the rope that was strangling the king.

Instantaneously, a well placed Templar jumped in front of Stiles, prepared to surge his blade forward in an act that would surely kill the prince. Acting quickly, Stiles dropped to the ground, crouching down and digging his fingers into the sand. His magick surged to the tips of his fingers, bleeding out into the soil-- pulsing a brilliant green light before radiating outwards.

Thick tendrils of roots sprang from the ground, latching on to the prince’s arms to siphon away at more of his energy. It only served to fuel the spell. His body trembled as he willed it to focus on the auras around him. He called to them with his spirit, beckoning them to concede to his command. All at once, his magick and energies connected, linking together and swirling in his mind where it rushed from his core down through the tips of his fingers and into the soil. He whimpered-- the intense rush of raw power was more overwhelming than anything he’d ever invoked before.

The wind began to rush around him, affected by the fusion of his magick and its new link with nature’s energy. It billowed his cloak wildly behind him. Then, as the culmination of power reached its peak, it shot down from his arms and into the roots sapping at his skin. Throughout the entire expanse of the arena, glowing vines burst forth from the earth, covering the Crucible in a mess of tangled plantlife. He was relieved to notice a nest of roots and vines had stopped his father’s fall.

Stiles suddenly whimpered again as he felt his body weaken. The intensity of the spell was already taking its toll-- feeding on his own life force to strengthen its effects.

The vines lashed and whipped at the templars, knocking them around effortlessly. The sick crunch of their bones was a loud sound that echoed off the walls and bloodied earth. The arena quaked with where the violent, green tendrils moved along the surface of the ground with sinister minds of their own. All around them, the templars were attempting to flee, only Stiles’ vines were quicker-- snatching them up and ripping them apart, limb-by-limb. The Crucible was being bathed in a mess of blood and extremities.

Suddenly, heat rained over his flesh-- a scalding spatter of crimson liquid. He watched, confused, as the templar in front of him suddenly fell to his knees. Stiles wanted to veer up, but the spell was still siphoning away his energy. Even the simple act of raising his head seemed an impossible feat. He wondered why this templar had grown lax, until he heard a sick, wet thud. It was then he saw the man’s disembodied head rolling forward in a river of his blood. Stiles watched in slow motion as the deceased templar’s body finally crumbled to the ground.

Stiles was momentarily stunned, wondering how-- then he felt Derek’s presence. He had been right behind Stiles and quickly swept his glaive forward when his mate had ducked, cleaving the Templar's head from his shoulders in one grossly smooth flourish. His arm stayed extended- stilled with his menacing battle axe firm in his hold. Scarlet essence dripped from its edges.

It was then that the spell had finally ended. The roots sucking at his arms slowly drew back into the ground below. Stiles wearily lifted his head, ignoring the crimson trails that dripped from his face. He took in a deep breath, trying to keep the sudden dizziness and exhaustion at bay. Reigning in the last of his strength, he staggered to his feet.

He was drenched in red, and the fire in his eyes was a raw, pure energy; a deep power. All of it now locked on one sole figure. Gerard Argent stood, watching from the shadows as all of his plans crumbled, but his world had become narrowed on the solitary cause of it all. The Demon Prince, bathed in blood, with murder in his eyes. He had underestimated Stiles for the last time.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Toby and Deej here! We want to apologize like, a million times over and over to every single one of you who have dedicated so much time into reading this fic as we wrote it last year. We don’t have a really good excuse for the long hiatus, other than real life situations getting in the way of Sterek. We’ve worked hard to pull this chapter together for you though, because we believe you deserve to have this story finished. Thank you for sticking with us, and if you’re still reading, we love you, and appreciate you. We hope you like this update!
> 
> We’d also like to note that the following updates might be slow coming since we’re completely reworking the plot of the story moving forward from this point. Don’t be discouraged though, we promise it won’t take another year for the next chapter. If it does, you have full permission to hate us. Maybe come track us down and beat us in the face with our own laptops…
> 
> Anywho! Enjoy the chapter and thank you again, a million times over for sticking with us this far! 
> 
> To those of you just joining us, you are lucky...

Exhaustion tugged at his bones, threatening to pull him down in a heap. Only, the all consuming hatred in his eyes burned with a strength that surpassed any warrior that had ever set foot on The Crucible's soil.

Stiles' back trembled, spine barely holding himself up, his fists clenched tight. His breathing was ragged and labored. The mixture of his sweat and the blood from the felled templar dripped from his face. Derek was behind him, and although the the presence of his knight should have been a comfort, the bond told him differently. Derek was under duress internally. Though Stiles was no fool, he knew it was from the earlier, terrifying display of magick.

Up until this point, Stiles had been very subtle with his spells. He knew that it set his mate on edge and so out of consideration, he had only allowed himself simple things. However, after being faced with the possible death of his father, Stiles could barely think. His body had taken over, driven by his instincts to protect, it unleashed a devastating power he didn't know he was capable of.

Even he was surprised by what had transpired. Never before had his magick manifested so violently. He had only ever utilized defensive and protective charms-- healing abilities that coincided with the natural life of the world. To see his magick turn against him-- to siphon away his own energies to fuel a volatile display of sheer destruction, it baffled him.

What he didn’t know, however, was that his spells had been influenced by his own emotions. The hatred and desperation he felt in those distressing moments reacted with his will and use of power, thus releasing a dangerous onslaught of uncontained magick.

All around him the din and turmoil was miles away from his mind. His ears rang as he numbly knelt in the bloodied mud and sand, chest filling with laboriously gathered air. Stiles was numbly aware of Derek behind him, fending off any Templar that dared get too close. His eyes scanned the stands all around them. Gerard was nowhere to be seen, long fled amongst the masses of people frantic to flee the crucible.

“....s.... iles..... _STILES!_ ” Slowly Derek’s voice seeped in through Stiles’ haze and reality slammed back into the prince like a brick wall. He gasped deeply, staggering to his feet with the help of Derek hoisting him up with a hand tightly coiled around the fabric of his cloak. There was a moment where Stiles had to acclimate to his limbs, still heavy and weak. The high pitched ringing in his ears grated against his mind making his head throb in immense pain. He took in a deep breath, doing his best to push past the nauseating ache sitting heavy in his gut and clenched his fists tight.

He finally looked over his shoulder and was met with the sight of his warrior, panting and just as equally drenched in blood. However, the physical state of Derek was the farthest thing from his mind for the emotions showing in his eyes-- it hurt more than any torture his magick could inflict. Derek was frightened. Genuinely fearful of Stiles’ display of power. It was clear in the way his grip loosened too easily. The way he couldn’t meet Stiles’ gaze. If these weren’t evident enough, the bond told him everything he needed to know. Only, Derek was trying his best to subdue it. Though, he was the first to nod. A gesture that was meant to ask if his prince was in good health but it was too curt-- too forced. Stiles returned it nonetheless, albeit in despondence.

It was then that Derek finally let go of his cloak. The effort it took for him to release his hold was immense. The simple act of letting go had always been the hardest thing for Derek.

Stiles lingered for a moment longer before turning. There was a brief moment, a path set before him and he didn’t hesitate to take it. He ran, fast, across the field, setting the issues with Derek aside for later. He made it to the gallows in no time, skidding to a stop as he started to tear away the vines that still cradled his father.

There was silence between them, but Stiles felt tension. Mostly from himself. His secret... It was something he’d never spoken to his father about; a part of himself which he’d never even dreamed of showing him. A certain level of shame filled him, knowing that he’d unintentionally betrayed his mother’s wishes. She had been so desperate that he hide it, keep it safe...

The vines finally bowed to Stiles’ hands, recognizing his magick and curling away, freeing his father at last. Once the king was on his feet, Stiles withdrew his knife, and easily sliced the ropes binding his hands behind his father’s back. From there, the King pulled the noose from his throat, and gripped Stiles’ shoulders. For just a second, Stiles flinched at the touch, but was surprised as his father tugged him in even further. The embrace was tight and shocking. Stiles had assumed that his father would be disgusted by him-- repulsed and fleeing at first chance.

“Stiles...” The king’s voice was raw. Hearing Derek’s howl, a signal, Stiles steeled himself abruptly and pulled away.

“Later, Father. We must flee if we are to live another day.” Stiles glanced around, taking in their surroundings. The area was clear. Gripping onto his father’s wrist, Stiles darted out from under the gallows, King in tow, to where the wolves had regrouped. All of the Templars that had engaged them were dead. Stiles’ magick leaving hell in it’s wake, sparing mercy to none.

“We have to leave now!” Derek snarled out, eyes glowing irritably. He glanced around their small company, taking a mental headcount. Stiles, the King, Laura, Isaac, Erica, Boyd, Stiles’ friend.....

“Where’s Peter?” Laura asked, as if she’d been right in line with Derek’s thoughts. She made to turn as if she were about to go look for him when the oldest of the Hale’s dropped down from the stands. He sauntered over with a wide smile spread across his face.

“I’m here, I’m here. Don’t worry. How about we get out of this place, hmm? I, for one, dislike the smell of death, so unless any of you pups want to roll around in it....” Raising his eyebrows, Peter tilted his head, deferring to Derek.

Huffing quietly, Derek frowned at his uncle and started leading the way out of the Arena. He only paused for a brief moment to make sure Stiles was within arms reach of him.

“Anyone else creeped out by this city? Where is everyone now?” Erica voiced as they walked through the streets.

“Hiding. Fleeing.” The King muttered, looking disconcerted as he looked around.

“Even the Templars?” Isaac chimed in. King John did a bit of a double take, realizing that he recognized the blond.

“Especially the Templars. After such a... display of strength, Argent will have called for a retreat, to regroup and nurse his numbers back to full health for a new attack. Argent may be a coward, but he’s a smart coward. Or at least, he thinks he is.” The King set a hand on his son’s shoulder, squeezing gently as if trying to reassure him. Stiles was ever silent, head bowed as they walked.

“Would anyone care to fill me in?” King John asked finally. Derek slowed a little so that he was parallel with the older man. Erica, Boyd, and Laura took up the lead with Isaac supporting Scott just behind them. Peter brought up the rear, a few paces behind everyone else. Stiles lagged just barely behind Derek with his father in the center.

“Well, your Majesty...” Derek started. The King scoffed a little at the title.

“Do I look like much of a king right now? Call me John. I’ll take my title back when I feel I’ve earned it.” He insisted, a heavy sigh rolling from his lungs. Derek seemed a little uncomfortable with that, but he nodded his acceptance of the man’s wishes.

“Very well… John. My name is Derek Hale, son of Joseph Hale, Heir to--” The king sighed, waving his hand around flippantly.

“Yes, yes. I know of who you are and your royal lineage. You forget that you’ve been dwelling in my kingdom for several years now and not to mention the fact that you’ve been consorting with my son quite _intimately_.” Stiles ducked his head to hide the blush on his cheeks. John only rolled his eyes.

“So you’d be a fool to think that I wouldn’t have investigated everything there is to know about you. I’m talking about the rest of your company. By God, I think I saw one of them sprout claws!” Derek shot a look at Stiles who returned it almost instantly. It seemed as though the two were silently conversing with their eyes, debating on whether to try and satiate John with some sort of farce. However, the king was having none of it.

“No, don’t you even think about it. I’ll have the truth from you, Genim. You’ll not keep me in the dark any longer, and don’t think I’ve forgotten about that _thing_ you did in the arena. I will have every last detail of the secrets you’ve been hiding from me, young man.”

Stiles nodded with an audible gulp, but Derek’s eyes never left his mate’s. He was waiting for what Stiles thought was best. The prince gestured subtly with his hand prompting Derek to clear his throat, catching the king’s attention.

Stiles readied himself, subconsciously holding his breath. He had thought about this since the moment he himself had found out about Derek’s big, furry secret. How he-- _they_ \--would explain it to his father. Of course, in his mind, he was a masterful linguist— weaving together a perfectly articulated explanation, all the while maintaining the maximum amount of delicacy. Though, he would have been a fool if he thought that it would actually happen so seamlessly.

“We’re werewolves.”

Stiles choked on air, completely caught off guard by Derek’s blunt confession. His father only raised a brow.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you quite right. Come again?” Derek, with the most serious face Stiles had ever seen him make, spoke again.

“I said, we’re werewolves.”

The ensuing silence was almost deafening save for the crunching of leaves on the forest floor as they continued their tread. Then almost suddenly, the king snickered, prompting Derek’s face to morph into one of confusion.

“Son, I think your suitor has gone daft.” John said with a hysterical laugh, but after seeing the guilty expression of his son, unwavering, his laugh tapered into silence.

“So, you’d have me believe that you’re all mythological creatures? Stiles, I said no more lies and yet again I find you--”

“Show him.” Stiles cut in suddenly. Derek nodded, eyes flashing blue in time for John to see. He brought up his hand and let his claws slowly protrude from his fingertips.

“Holy God and Mother Mary! You’re a… and he is?! And they are…?” Quite frantically, the king stepped back, putting himself between the now stilled pack and his son.

“No, father, it’s fine. They’re friends! They mean you no harm!” Though Stiles’ words were said softly and controlled, the king was suddenly frantic. Derek was noticeably agitated with the implication of someone taking his mate away. He could hardly silence the demented growl that escaped his throat.

John gave a pained look of confused confliction. Giving the group a quick once-over, he swallowed hard and gave a stern look to the Black Wolf.

“Tell me what I need to know. I’m fighting a war with a blind horse at this point and I need a little more damned information if we’re going to keep on this path. Because Stiles, I’m about ten minutes from losing my mind. None of this is supposed to exist, and now you expect me to believe on blind faith that magick, and werewolves, and God knows what else exist? That I’m in the company of them?”

Derek nodded and inhaled deeply. He wasted little time launching into the tale, only after a glance with Stiles told him that the boy wasn’t up to spilling the long winded story of what had happened so far. Everyone seemed to settle a little, the most of them listening to Derek.

Stiles fell back a few more paces, letting himself finally breathe and absorb the gravity of what had just taken place back in the arena.

Looking down to his hands, they were trembling. He could see dirt under his nails, stained red from blood. He swallowed hard, trying to clean them with harsh, uncoordinated motions. His face felt pale, his stomach turning a little. Stiles.... Had killed people. A _lot_ of people. None with his own two hands, but his magick, which was even closer to him. It was part of his soul and this was a taint that he’d bear for the rest of his life. Their pain and their blood, were like a living bruise inside of him.

It was in these silent moments, tangled in the confines of his mind that the terrifying truth of what he had done began to take its toll. The ways of the craft were clear. _‘An ye harm none’_ the Rede says. The only law he was to uphold, the rule that separated the Witches of White from the Sorcerers of Darkness, he had broken. He used his magick to take life, whether intentional or not, it didn’t change the fact that it happened. By the Goddess, what would his mother think of him? She was probably weeping in the afterlife, shamed to have bore a son who had let his gift get the better of him. From the youngest days of his childhood he could remember how she always taught that magick was all about duality. That although the ability to wield this power is a gift, it was just as easily a curse. She told him that magick rode a thin line between life and death. That you must have a clear mind, benevolent intentions and absolute focus, lest it take you over, fill you up and corrupt you. The Goddess has spurned him from her sights this day.

Stiles was quickly swelling with emotion, barely able to contain them. He felt as though he was about to burst at the seams, but he didn’t want to be more of a hinderance than he already was. What a fool he had been. How utterly asinine. He had betrayed both himself and his oath to the craft and in those moments, Stiles felt less of himself than even the dirtiest scum that walked the earth.

It was then he felt the hot streak of moisture trailing down his face. He quickly swiped it away and cleared his throat quietly.

“What? You don’t like the feel of blood on your hands?” Peter asked him quietly. The man was walking in step with him. Stiles blanched a little and shook his head, lowering his hands to fist them into the fabric of his cloak.

“I imagine not.... It takes a certain type of person to get used to such a thing.” Peter mused out loud.

“Are you... That type of person?” Stiles couldn’t help but ask. He had a fleeting suspicion that he was. Peter didn’t answer though. Instead, he grinned in a fiendish manner and chuckled.

“If you dislike blood, then I suggest you bathe before looking in a mirror.” He advised. For another volatile moment, Stiles felt like throwing up. He could distinctly remember the feeling of the man Derek had beheaded, pouring scalding scarlet life-blood over his face and chest. Even now, the crusted blood emitted a foul, copper stench that offended his nose.

“Yeah, thanks. I’ll be sure to do that.” Stiles muttered, swallowing back bile.

“You didn’t enjoy any of that, did you? Not even in the slightest.....” Peter looked mildly intrigued as he glanced sidelong at his nephew’s mate-- his darling nephews _happiness_.

“Of course I didn’t.” Stiles snapped quietly, appalled that Peter would think he could have enjoyed it. “What joy is there in taking life?” Silent for a long moment, Peter sighed and raised a hand to rub the back of his neck a little.

“That depends on who you’re killing, Stiles. Sometimes a single death is all it takes to set right all the wrongs in your life.” He murmured.

Stiles seemed to falter in his steps, staring blankly at Peter.

“Are you alright? You’ve been acting.... peculiar since battle...”

As if he’d been given a cue, Peter moved. Stiles barely had time to blink before he found his body locked in place, restrained against Peter’s firm chest. His chin was arched up sharply, the prick of claws gripping his esophagus was enough to convince him to hold still. His hands were clenched in an iron grip behind his back by the alpha’s other hand.

“Oh, I’m feeling just fine, Stiles.” Peter said brashly, his voice finally hinting to just how unhinged he had become. “In fact, I’m feeling great! You see, I’ve realized something... I’ve realized...” He trailed off, grinning wolfishly over Stiles’ shoulder to the Pack and the King, who had turned to watch him in horror. Laura, Derek and Scott were the first to dash forward. However, Isaac quickly gripped Scott, keeping him in place.

“Uncle!” Laura started harshly. “What are you doing?”

“I’m taking what I need.” Peter replied with a bit of a laugh. Derek snarled viciously, risking another bold step forward. He stopped abruptly though, when he heard Stiles hiss in pain, tensing as Peter’s claws dug in a little deeper.

“Ah, no, you’ll be staying right there, Derek.” Peter leered with a grin. Derek was half transformed, perched forward as if he was poised to spring.

“Peter! Let Stiles go!” Laura demanded again, trying to remain the diplomat. John watched, lost for words, lost for action. He was a singular human amidst a mass of werewolves. He was no match and he knew that any irrational action from him would end Stiles’ life immediately.

“Silence! You know nothing of the truth!” Peter spat out, his own face starting to shift. His alpha form couldn’t seem to settle, contorted with his anger and madness. “They’re _dead_ because of _you_! You let that wench in. You conspired against us. You might as well have cast the flames yourself!” Peter yelled at Derek, baring his teeth and fitting them against Stiles shoulder.

“Then kill me.” Derek said, his mood quickly shifting to panic. “Leave Stiles out of this.” Laura took a tentative step closer.

“Stop! _Stop_!” Stiles yelped out, feeling Peter’s teeth clamp down a little tighter. Laura backpedaled a few steps, hands up as if in surrender.

Stiles had broken out in a sweat, his skin being pricked by the lethal tips of Peter’s fangs. He expected the searing pain of his flesh being ripped apart but was completely baffled as Peter took in a deep breath-- inhaling Stiles’ scent.

"My my, with such a delicious aroma.... Now I understand why Derek reams that tight ass of yours every night.” Stiles’ eyes shot open, wide and terrified. The way Peter’s voice slithered with such satisfaction, it had him shivering with a newfound fear. “What? Were you honestly so naive that you didn’t think any of us knew how you rut like heat-ridden beasts every night? Please, Stiles. You reek of his essence. It’s practically putrid.”

Peter closed his eyes for a moment, and tilted his head back for a moment. He breathed in deeply, filling his lungs to capacity before slowly releasing it with a hiss. His eyelids fluttering as he took in every scent in the clearing. Fear, panic, anger. It was an intoxicating and volatile cocktail. Most of all, he could smell the stench they had all become well accustomed to. The smell of Derek and Stiles.

“You know, no matter how thick his mark is on you, I can still taste it in the air... The depth of just how wanton a slut you are. How many men did you fuck before you settled on the wolf with the biggest dick you could find? Ten? Twenty, perhaps? Your little hand maiden over there with the pretty brown eyes?" He said, his head motioning towards Scott. Stiles gulped loudly, protest resting on the very tip his tongue when Derek growled and took another step forward. Peter’s response was quick, teeth finding the prominent bulge of Stiles’ jugular. Derek stilled his feet, eyes flaring a dangerous blue. Peter only smiled again. Stiles could feel the older man’s lips shape into that mischievous grin against his panic-heated flesh.

"I'm the alpha, you know,” he continued, moving his head to whisper into Stiles‘ ear. “My power-- my seed... It's even stronger than Derek's. I'd have to kill him, sure, but I could mate you. I could satisfy you. Why would you want to live a life standing at the side of a kinslayer?" Fury bubbled in Stiles’ gut. The mere implication of someone harming Derek set his mind on edge. He fingers twitched with the intent of summoning his magick, but Peter surprised all of them with his next action.

Licking down the side of Stiles’ throat to his shoulder, he bared his fangs, caressing Stiles’ skin with the sharp points of his teeth-- a tease.

"I could give you the Bite, and while you're in the throes of the Change, I would kill your mate. Then, as you come into your newborn life as one of us, I'll engrain my seed into your body and soul-- your every desire will be to bare my pups."

“Peter! What?! This isn’t you! Stop this madness! You know as well as I do that Derek was tricked. He would never betray us! He was deceived by the cunning of that twisted bitch!” Laura yelled.

Peter snarled and gnashed his fangs in the air at both Laura and Derek, it gave Stiles just enough time to wiggle his fingers and instinctually call forth a few strands of thorns that wrapped tightly around Peter’s legs. It was just enough of a distraction that Derek and Laura were able to lunge forward, working in close rhythm. Laura pried Stiles away from Peters grip, freeing him with just a few scratches, while Derek attacked.

Immediately, the betas darted forward, eyes gold and fangs bared. Laura held her hand up to stop them.

“No. I... This is between Derek and Peter.” Laura said in a tense voice. It was obvious she was fighting her own instinct to protect her Alpha.

Pulling Stiles away from the two vicious werewolves, she brought the prince to his father. Stiles watched the fight with trepidation in his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to stop this, to save Derek and end the pointless battle.

Bringing up his hand, he stared intently at his fingers, urging them to manipulate the energies around him. He strengthened his resolve, doing his best to clear his mind and focus. Extending his arm, he strained, summoning his magick forth. He carefully envisioned vines erupting from the earth, not to harm, but to restrain-- to separate both Derek and Peter in hopes that there would be no more bloodshed.

He focused, letting the power, the will and the _belief_ swell within his being before directing its flow to his hand. But instead of the cooling rush of energy, he felt an agonizing burning in his chest as if something were boiling inside of him, sucking his magick back and coiling it into a tight bubble. His entire body shook.The sparked magick was thrashing inside of him with nowhere to escape. Everything felt garbled and at the same time, he was hypersensitive. He felt everything in a rush-- the wind, the forests, the sun. It was too much and when the sensation reached its culmination and he felt as if he was going to explode... it suddenly vanished.

He felt nothing.

Absolutely _nothing_.

There was no call of the Earth nor could he feel the flow of her life. The song of the wind was silent and the invigorating rays of the sun didn’t vitalize his soul like it did from the day he was born. There was a disconnection. He was cut off from the world and it left him feeling empty, cold and the weakest he’s ever felt. He knees buckled and he landed in a heap on the ground below, arms straining to hold him up.

“No...” he muttered, fingers digging into the dirt. It didn’t meet his touch like it should. He couldn’t _feel_ it. The fight before him was forgotten entirely as his eyes shot wide and his heart plummeted. His magick...it was _gone_. He felt crippled. The world had suddenly become so bland, lost was the vibrancy he had known for so long, replaced by muted colors and dull sounds.

Derek glanced over sharply, and it was enough time for Peter to land a solid hit on him. Yowling in pain at the clawed gashes that now adorned his chest, Derek launched himself on Peter, and lifted the Alpha with a great heave. Peter flung into the forest, not seconds later a mighty crash of body meeting tree sounded. Derek stood, breathing heavily as he stared, and waited. Counting internally, Derek was tense and anxious. If Peter didn’t surface again soon, Derek would have to go after him, leaving Stiles and the Pack so that he could make sure the Alpha wasn’t just waiting to ambush. Derek didn’t have to wait long. Peter’s mutated, corrupt Alpha-form launched from the bushes. He slammed hard enough into Derek that the broad stature of the wolf slammed back into the ground. Both men had been reduced to their base animal nature. Roaring, teeth snapping as they wrestled for dominance over the situation.

At the sidelines, Isaac clung too Erica’s shoulder, with Laura not far behind, her hand gently wrapped around Scott’s bicep to anchor him in place. They all felt the draw to rush to their Alpha’s aid. Even Scott who didn’t quite understand how to cope with this- why he had to cope with this. He was uncomfortable and itching to pull away. Laura growled roughly as she felt the tension building. “Hold your positions. None of you are strong enough to intervene.” She hissed, although her own eyes were glowing bright gold.

Kneeling down beside his weakened and dazed son, John grit his teeth, and made Stiles look at him. “Are you okay?” Stiles was feverish, and frantic, lost in a futile sense of denial. He couldn’t understand it. Why now? Where did it go? Why couldn’t he feel his magick anymore?

Another firm shake from his father had his eyes focusing on the king. Then he realized he couldn’t see his knight. He was filled with a crushing fear.

“Derek... Where’s Derek? Where is he? Please...” He begged, gripping at his fathers wrist.

“Stiles! Are you okay?” John reiterated firmly, shaking him just a little.

“Derek...” Stiles whimpered, and tried to crane his head to look around. It didn’t take long for his eyes to land on the blur of limbs. Panic clutched at his chest, even more so than before. “Derek!” He shouted. His voice echoed in harmony with a long, high pitched whine that cut off abruptly.

Suddenly, cast into the middle of a disconcerting silence, all of the betas and for some reason Scott, inhaled sharply as if something had knocked the breath from them. Shortly after, there was a loud, roaring howl that shook the foundation of the forest.

_Derek’s roar._

A minute passed as Derek hunched over Peters still form. His breathing was hard, muscles rippling as if they were shifting and rearranging. He was calming down, it seemed. Derek stood slowly, feet shuffling to get under him quick enough to bear his weight. His claws dripped crimson and he looked up to all the the eyes that watched him expectantly. His own eyes were red now, and hardened. A growl rumbling from his chest was all that it took to make the betas bow their heads and avert their eyes from their new alpha.

Peter was dead.

Relief flooded Stiles, and with the last of his energy, he smiled. Then his world faded to black.

* * *

“Derek... May I have a word?” John said softly. They had been walking for hours now, heading across the countryside. After a few moments of confusion as to where they should go, John finally suggested an old friend of his who would be faithful in hiding him. However much he disliked the idea of hiding from his problems, he needed to recover and gather troops if he were to try to take out Gerard. He needed supplies and support, both of which he had very little of at the moment.

Derek was quietly walking with his horse at his side. Stiles was draped carefully across the mount’s back, secured to make sure he wouldn’t tumble off. Once it had been determined that Stiles was okay, just exhausted from the fight, Derek had calmed considerably. Though he refused to let anyone else touch him.

“What?” Derek agreed to the King’s request after a long few minutes, turning most of his attention to the man. It had taken a considerable amount of time trying to decide just how civil he would be to him.

John didn’t seem the least bit reproached by Derek’s bluntness. Instead, it seemed he understood where it was coming from. John had garnered himself no favors from this lost prince, nor from his son; he was sure of that.

“In my life… I have never been very good about accepting or embracing that which I don’t understand. My life revolves around stability and the tangible. I pride myself as a man of logic, and I have attributed that logic to the success of my kingdom. Or at least… The success it had up until Argent began weaving his plans into me…” The weary king sighed heavily, mouth pressed tightly for a moment as displeasure crossed his features. “My wife was the part of me that could imagine and believe. She kept me balanced and open to the worlds I wasn’t privy to. When she died I lost that part of me. Moira… She thought I didn’t know that she was a witch. I knew well enough, but I suppose I never fully realized the extent of what that meant. I thought it was just some… fantastical love of nature and the myths she studied so diligently. It made her happy, and back then I would have given my right arm to make her smile if only for a moment. I never believed that magick was something… _more_. And I never dreamed it was something my son would inherit.“

Derek stared sidelong at John, biting back the comments he had. He wanted to know just why the King was telling him all of this but there was a distance in King John’s eyes. A distance his own had held the many nights he’d lain awake thinking of better times.

“When Moira died, I blamed the magick. I blamed it because I had no other excuse. It was the only thing in her life that was different from mine and if God had not seen fit to take me, then why would He take her? I turned to the faith the Argents sold to me because I believed that if I prayed hard enough, if I believed in something the way she always wished I could, then her soul would find peace. I thought it was the best thing to do, for myself, my kingdom, and my son. My choices, while made with good intent, have hurt many people. I hurt Stiles. My only son. I drove him from me, and straight to you.” At last, John fixed his eyes on Derek, present and intense.

“I don’t know you, Hale. I don’t know what you’re about, what kind of man you are, what kind of king you will be. And frankly…. I don’t trust a single person here besides myself. I don’t even trust what I’ve seen today as something that actually happened. So prove to me that this-- you, my son and your conquest together-- is something true. If you are as good of a man as your mother would have expected you to be, then you will earn my trust and respect. With it, my blessing. Until then… “ Pausing, John looked to his son’s sleeping form. He didn’t seem to quite know how to finish his statement. “Until then… Help me make this right.” John said finally, frowning. He didn’t often ask for help.

Derek levied a quiet sigh against the words his mate’s father had spoken. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t been anticipating. The promise of his blessing was good news but he was too tired and worried to rejoice over it.

“Sir, Stiles is the part of me that can imagine, and believe. He keeps me balanced, and open. He is the salve on wounds burned deep into me by another’s hands. I would give my right and left arm, and both of my legs, to see him smile if only for a moment.” Derek turned the King’s own words back on him. After a moment, he was rewarded with a chuckle from the man.

“It’s fitting that our two kingdoms would unite like this. I know Vilkatis is in ruins now, but I have faith it can be rebuilt. If you’re up to the task your mother so enjoyed, you will make her proud. What was it she always said? ‘A kingdom so great she would howl to it’s beauty every moonrise from now and beyond the hereafter’.” John laughed under his breath at the memory, before he sobered, and went silent. He’d never made the connection, really, that saying of Thalia’s and the fact that her family really was what the myths and legends rumored. He’d seen the proof of it earlier with his own eyes. He’d always thought Thalia just had a subtle flare for dramatics.

Derek didn’t know how to respond to that comment, a sharp memory like a needle in his brain. So instead, he remained silent, and picked up his pace a bit more. His focus intense, Derek would not stop until he knew Stiles was safe.

Several more hours passed as the pack followed the King’s directions through several towns and villages. Disguised and treading inconspicuously, they avoided any confrontation until the group had reached a small town on the edge of Belirti’s lands. King John had advised them to take shelter in the forest until nightfall where they could easily meet his loyal friend.

The pack set up a small camp, each of them sluggishly putting together tents and laying out pelts for sleeping. Stiles had awoke halfway through the journey but kept to himself, silently in turmoil over the happenings earlier that day. Not even Derek could rouse the prince’s voice or his attention. Needless to say, the travel was tense.

John stayed close to his son’s side, doing whatever he could to set up a small fire as the sky faded to darkness. There were no stars to be seen, the clouds above blocking any and all light. Even the moon had hidden itself from their sights. The pack had left to hunt with Scott in tow, much to Derek’s insistence. John tried feebly to get his son to open up while they had privacy, but it was of little consequence. Stiles had completely withdrawn into his mind, still troubled by his loss of connection to the world and his magick.

When the pack returned from their hunt, Erica, Isaac and Boyd were all laughing amongst themselves, playfully shoving at one another and arguing over who had the bigger catch. Derek and Laura emerged from the bushes behind them carrying a bloodied doe. Stiles’ chest felt constricted at the sight of her lifeless form.

Stiles mindlessly stared off into the depths of the winding fire as Derek and Laura prepared the meat. It was just like any other time they sat down to eat.

Except… _…it wasn’t._

There was a dark rage brimming just under Stiles’ skin. He could feel it boiling beneath the surface. It was anger-- all consuming in its wake. He was beyond consolation, but there was also regret. He felt as though if he looked into a mirror he wouldn’t recognize the visage that stared back at him. He wasn’t the same person anymore. He wasn’t _Prince Stiles of Belirti_. No, he was a murderer and a traitor to the ways of his craft. He was the prelude to the path of sorcery and that realization shook him to his very core.

“Stiles?” Derek’s voice broke through the haze in his mind. His eyes slowly looked up and focused. Derek was standing in front of him, a plate in hand-- a slab of meat roasted to perfection at its center. Stiles’ senses were assaulted by the scent of it and his mouth instantly watered, but his gut churned with the mere thought of eating it. The king’s voice stole everyone’s attention.

“No, no. My son doesn’t eat meat. How could you not know this?” He stated. Derek looked over his shoulder to the older man.

“Pardon Sire, but yes, he does.” John’s eyes shot wide and were filled with confusion. Instantly he was searching out his son. Stiles couldn’t meet his father’s gaze opting to instead reach out and take the proffered plate. Setting it into his lap, he stared down at it. His face scrunched up in disgust. It was like this every single time he sat down to eat. He let his eyes fall shut and prayed silently to himself, thanking the deer for her sacrifice, willing her safe passage into the next life and asking the Mother Goddess to forgive him for his transgressions. In these private moments with himself and the Goddess, he hated himself. He hated that he wanted it. He hated that he didn’t _understand_. Why? He wanted to know why. What changed in him? What led him so astray that he’d cast aside his beliefs-- his morality for a sudden, mysterious and all-consuming desire? He’d pondered this for weeks. Never before in his life had he even once thought of consuming the life of another creature, so why now? The question was as frustrating as it is obscuring. There was no explanation for it.

Even now, as his eyes remained shut and he prayed to the Goddess for the strength to reject the flesh set before him, his mouth hungered for the taste of it. Despite the uncomfortable toss of his stomach and the repulsing idea of it being within him, he couldn’t seem to deter the notion that he _needed_ it.

His grip tightened around the plate so much that his knuckles whitened and his mind became an internal battleground. He didn’t want to give in, no matter how much his body sought to betray him.

_’Not this time.’_

There had been so much shame that day, he would venture from his path no longer. Steeling his resolve, he flung the wooden plate aside and stood, eyes opening to see that he was the center of everyone’s attention.

“What is happening to me?!” He shouted, “this isn’t me! This isn’t who I am! I don’t understand why--” his anger was prevalent to the group. Derek was quick to his side, placing his hands on either side of Stiles’ face, though the prince tried to push from his hold, turning his head and closing his eyes to hide the emotions threatening to spill over.

“Look at me,” Derek demanded softly, but Stiles’ body only trembled, hands coming up to try and push his knight away again, but Derek’s hold was vice-like and unbreakable. Stiles sniffled trying to stay composed. He wasn’t going to cry, he wouldn’t let himself look weak. Not now-- not after what they’ve been through.

“Stiles, look at me!” Derek said louder, his eyes flashing red instead of the familiar blue. Stiles decided then that he didn’t quite like the new color of his Knight’s eyes. Though, as if out of instinct, his body seemed to settle, slumping and letting his arms fall lax at his sides. The crimson of Derek’s eyes faded away and his expression grew soft and concerned. His thumbs rubbed tenderly on Stiles’ cheeks, brushing away the stray tears that had escaped despite his attempts to hold them back.

“I know,” he said softly. “ _I know._ I smell the guilt on you every time you eat. I can feel it in my soul, the pain you suffer. There is something changing in you-- in us. I know you can feel it, too.” Stiles stiffened as the words registered, his eyes finally meeting Derek’s, but where Derek expected to find solace, he wasn’t counting on the raw fury that burned behind them. It was enough for him to release the hold he had on Stiles and step back.

“Changing? That’s what you call it? _Changing?_ ” the prince yelled. The pack was helpless to watch, silently observing the events unfold before them on the other side of the fire. A fire which had steadily begun building hire, flames licking and crackling in tandem with the ebb and flow of the furious energy welling within Stiles during his outburst.

“I don’t care _what_ is changing in me. All life is to be respected, Derek. All of it. I’ve strayed from my ways. I’ve foregone my traditions and teachings-- my entire way of being, for what? Because we’re _changing_? I’m to taint my body, my very _essence_ by taking part in the act of consuming the flesh of another? No. I’m tired of it. _I’m sick of it._ I’m sick of _myself_. I’ve brought shame upon my practice-- I don’t want to feel this _need_ anymore.” As his words wavered with intense emotion, features pinched in distraught passion, the fire stood nearly as tall as the princes own body, a veritable inferno as their travel companions watched the scene in concern and fear.

Derek gaped at Stiles, his hazel eyes flickering to keep an anxious watch on the growing flames. He scrambled in his mind to find words, anything that would help calm his prince. But that was an art of which he’d never been very good at.

“I _killed_ people today! I murdered them! Took their lives! I used a gift I had been given to protect nature and life to take it instead! How am I supposed to just be _okay_ with that?” Stiles demanded to know. “I don’t want to change like this! I don’t want this! I never wanted to hurt anyone! _Anything!_ If this is just... me _changing_ , then I need to figure out how to stop it!” Stiles took a half step backwards, as if he were prepared to dart away. Derek felt a moment of panic raise in him, clutching at his throat. He immediately filled the space between them again, and pulled Stiles back to him. His skin was scalding to the touch, cheeks blotched red with blush.

“Okay. Alright, Stiles. Alright. We’ll figure it out, and we’ll make it better.” He soothed at last. He was being sincere. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” Derek promised. Stiles looked like he was struggling to try and hold onto his anger under the intensity of Derek’s gaze. “I promise. We’ll work through this, but you have to let me help you.” Slowly, Derek’s words, and the soft tone of his voice worked some kind of calm into Stiles. It was slow catching at first, but as the young prince calmed, so did the fire beside them. Simmering down slowly, they both seemed to sag as their energies drained.

Quietly, trying to not draw any attention to themselves, Laura turned to murmur something quietly to Erica and Boyd. After a moment, the two Betas took off into the forest, while Isaac took care of the mess made by Stiles’ angry discarding of the meal he’d been offered. Seeing the young blonde cleaning it up made Stiles feel even worse.

“I’m sorry... I’m sorry I’m acting so... I don’t even know _ugh_... I just want to feel like myself again and I don’t know how to do that.” Stiles lifted a hand. He hesitated for a moment, fighting himself. He gently hooked a finger around one of Derek’s. A bare touch, but it was all he could allow himself.

Derek frowned, his standard expression. Though before he could even open his mouth, Stiles rolled his eyes.

“If you apologize and blame yourself, Derek, so help me I’ll cut you off.” He gruffed out. A pained groan came from his father who immediately turned away and tried to busy himself with the horses. He seriously didn’t want to hear such things from his son.

Though they’d only been gone for a handful of minutes, Erica and Boyd came running back into the clearing, a little breathless with handfuls of berries, and wild Kale. Stiles stared at them, gaping in shock. “You guys.... You didn’t have to go out and...”

“Stiles, you’re our Alpha’s mate. Of course we had to.” Erica replied bluntly. Both she and Boyd deposited their discoveries on the plate that had just previously held the rejected meat. Isaac had even gone so far as to wash away the remains with the canteen of water he used for himself.

“We all suffer if the Alpha and his mate are out of sorts, so it’s more for us than it is for you.” Erica added flippantly, shoving the plate at Stiles. Something about her words made sense to him, as well as calmed his nerves just a bit. He didn’t want to distress everyone just because he felt like he was coming apart inside.

“I’m sorry.... I-- Thank you, Erica, Boyd, Isaac. Really, thank you.” Stiles said softly, watching the two Beta’s. Boyd finally walked past him.

“Really, it’s nothing.” He assured, in a tone that said ‘really, don’t mention it again, please’. The Betas sat down together across a fallen log.

Derek and John took their own seat’s near each other, with Laura in a comfortable proximity for conversation. Stiles had been just about to sit beside Derek when he noticed Scott sitting a little ways off from the rest, alone and looking confused. All at once, he felt like an ass for being so selfishly consumed.

Walking over, he sat down next to his best friend and looked over at him.

“Hi.” He said tentatively. Scott glanced at him sideways.

“Hi.”

A long moment of silence lingered between them, before they both started talking at the same time.

“Are you alright-”  
“Are you alright-”

Both of them started to laugh a little and Stiles rubbed a hand over his face. “Scott, seriously, are you okay?” He asked in concern.

“Ah... Yeah. I’m good. That bite from the crazy guy has been stinging, but it feels like it’s easing up a bit.” Scott said, wincing a little as he pressed his hand against his side where he’d been...

“Bite?! Scott, Peter bit you!?” Stiles exclaimed, hastily setting his dish aside in favor of grabbing Scotts dirty shirt. It was already a dark shade of brown, so the blood that soaked the side of it had seemed like little more than dirt before. Pulling it up, he stared at his best friends side, taking in the sight of his wounded flesh. Deep, unmistakable teeth marks scored his skin.

“Stiles! Stop it, it’s fine! It’s stopped bleeding already. I’ll clean it the first chance we get and I’m sure it’ll be fine.” He tried to push Stiles off of him.

“Scott, seriously!? Do you not get it? Peter was a werewolf! An alpha werewolf! And he bit you!” In the silence that surrounded them, Derek let out a barely contained groan.

* * *

It was a long night, trying to sleep on the road after all of the developments that day. Despite being exhausted from the battle, Derek found himself incapable of sleeping. Long after his watch ended, he remained awake, with Stiles curled up against him. Everything that had happened that day was racing through his mind. So much had occurred, he could barely believe that only a day had passed.. He was hardly able to make it through his life before today, and now that he was an alpha, there was so much more responsibility weighing on his shoulders. He’d killed his own uncle, the last of what felt like hundreds that had fallen under his blade that day. Peter, who had tried to kill his mate. Stiles, who seemed to be on the verge of a total breakdown. Kate was alive, and the daughter of the leader of the Templars and the Church. A church which undoubtedly now had a price on each and every one of their heads, including the King’s. To top it all off, he now had a brand new werewolf on his hands.

Just thinking about everything that he was now forced to deal with made his head spin.

Stiles wasn’t even stirring, where he slept hard against his side. Laura, however, had been tossing and turning for hours.

“...You don’t have to pretend to be asleep, Laura.” Derek whispered. It wasn’t even more than a few seconds before she sighed heavily and sat upright. She looked over at Derek, and slipped in closer until she was sitting next to his side, blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Quietly, she leaned on her brother.

“I still find myself thinking at night, wondering if I’ll wake up and you’ll still be alive.” Derek was silent after his sister’s words resonated through him. He felt the same.

“I understand.” He murmured gently. For a very long time, they sat there in silence. “Why didn’t you come to Belirti and seek asylum?” He asked finally, turning his head quietly to look at her. Laura stared forward to the smoldering coals of the fading fire.

“Because... I couldn’t bring myself to call any place but Vilkatis home. Even if it was just rubble and charred remains, it’s where I belong.” She whispered. Derek frowned.

“That’s not true. You don’t belong with a bunch of ghosts, Laura. You were always the liveliest of us....” Laura didn’t seem to agree with that, but she kept her lips tight-shut for the time being. Derek didn’t want to leave it at that though.

“Laura.... I swear if I had known-”

“I know, Derek. You were never one to abandon anyone. That’s a fault of yours, actually. You’ve never known when to let someone go. All these years, you never let go of me, or Mom and Dad... Cora?” Derek winced at the name of his youngest sister. That was still a wound that stung more than he could express. He hadn’t even told Stiles about Cora.

“How can I let her... _them_ , go? It’s my fault they’re gone. It’s my fault you don’t have a family anymore, Laura. Who would be daft enough to forgive me for that?” Hazel eyes dulled with a bitter tinge.

Sharply, Laura punched Derek in the gut. He half jerked in surprise, but stilled when Stiles grumbled his protest in his sleep. Settling back slowly, he shot his sister a glare.

“What the hell was that for?” He hissed at her in irritation.

“For calling me daft, you ass.” She replied sharply. It took a minute for Derek to realize what she meant.

* * *

Morning came quickly, and though Derek had still been unable to sleep, they rose at dawn to continue their march, skipping breakfast in favor of the promise of shelter that night.

“Dad... Dad!” Stiles nudged his horse to walk a little quicker, catching up with the King who currently walked at the head of the Pack. He gave a suffering sigh, and looked up at his son.

“What, Stiles?” He asked tiredly. Stiles wasn’t used to seeing a beard-scruff on his usually well manicured father’s face. He looked years older, compared to how he had been before all of this had happened.

“Where are we going? I feel like I know this path.” Stiles inquired. He watched his father sigh and look forward.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d recognize it or not. It’s been nearly ten years since the last time either of us came this way.” John replied cryptically. Stiles wracked his memory for a long time before he blinked, and sat up straighter.

“Alan? Dad why are we going to Duke Alan of Deaton Vale? We haven’t had contact with Deaton Vale in...”

“Since your mom died. Duke Alan has never been a supporter of the Argents and the Templars. In fact, he detests everything they stand for. Alan was a very good friend of mine, I should have listened to his warnings, but when I allowed the Argent’s to set up Church in Belirti, he made it clear he would have no more to do with the kingdom. Despite our discrepancies, he will give us safe haven, I’m sure of it.” Stiles was shocked, but it made sense the more he thought about it. He remembered the Duke of Deaton Vale being someone that his father had always held in high respect.

Stiles fell silent, and allowed his horse to fall back in pace again. Derek had kept a watchful eye on him as ever, but something about the paleness of his face and the gaunt hollow of his cheeks had him a bit more on edge today.

“...Are you feeling alright?” Derek asked gently when he’d come parallel to his mate. Stiles glanced over at him and looked away just as quickly, residual shame lingering on his face.

“I’m okay... Just tired today. I feel like I didn’t sleep at all last night even though I did.” He mumbled out. Derek wasn’t appeased by this admission. He reached up to feel his young lover’s cheek. He was a little clammy, but not fevered. Stiles leaned away from his hand a little. “I said I’m fine, Derek. Really. Don’t worry about me.” His lips pulled into a smile that was hard to deny.

Letting his arm drop, Derek nodded a bit, and focused again on the road. Stiles would be okay. He just needed some rest.

The prince wasn’t about to tell Derek that he felt numb and unsteady. As if he were moments from keeling over the side of his horse. Or that his head swam with a foggy daze and his eyes didn’t want to focus. The lack of energy inside of him made him feel sick to his stomach. The raw connection he always shared with the world around him was locked away, leaving him dim and claustrophobic.

Stiles felt like he was broken and he didn’t know how to fix it. Part of him wanted to claw into his stomach, open himself up as if he would be able to see his magical center, and find just what was blocking him. Keeping him from being… Well… Stiles.

Derek’s hands flexed at his side as he resisted the urge to pull Stiles down, and carry him personally. Stiles had a wall up around him at the moment, and after the outburst the evening prior, Derek honestly couldn’t blame him. Both men, silent and tense, wanted to speak, to fix what was broken, though neither knew how to do it…

* * *

Hours of travel passed, thanks to the slow pace the King set for his ill-fairing son and the exhaustion he himself felt. The sun had reached it’s peak in the sky, and fallen a little bit past when they broke through the tree line. Before them, in the midst of a broad valley in the hills, rose a beacon of hope for them all. A sturdy, well maintained Keep nestled into the landscape like a safe haven with its high stone walls. The white flags that fluttered atop the Keep and it’s walls were decorated in stitching of a deep azure border, and an emerald tree. A banner often associated with peace, wisdom, and old magicks.

“Welcome to Deaton Valley.” John announced to their tired company. His own voice was filled with relief. It seemed like the sight of their destination some how reinvigorated them all. Their speed returned as they hastened to cover the acres between them and safety.

_Comfort._

Derek silently hoped that perhaps Duke Alan may know something, being the wise man he is known to be, that would help Stiles overcome whatever affliction he seemed to have fallen under.

Fifty yards from the Keep’s front gates, a company of Guards came to meet them. Flanked by three men on either side, John kept his stance at the head of their procession. They were led into what seemed to be a flourishing little keep-town. The farmlands around the Vale were noticeably plentiful. Their children were healthy. It was completely different from the small villages in which the Pack had associated around Belirti. Stiles was stricken by the prosperity here, and the stark contrast to the conditions his own people were living in. If anything, being here made him feel even more ill. Or perhaps it was the motion of the horse walking beneath him. Something about the smell of someone’s dinner drifting from an opened window made his stomach roil and turn even more violently. A hand briefly clamped over his pale face, holding his mouth and nose shut for a few moments.

Derek faintly felt his Mate’s discomfort. The blockade in their connection was disconcerting him deeply. Normally he would feel everything Stiles felt. Yet since the battle, he only got a vague notion every so often. He didn’t like feeling so distant and stunted. It made him feel helpless…

Guided to the steps of the Duke’s holdings, they were greeted at last, by the sight of the proud, dark skinned man who stood at the steps. He was smiling with his hands folded behind his back. He only had one Guard at his side, a decorated man of mid-age of dark hair, olive skin. Alan, a man with little hair on his head but a well groomed chin and keen eyes, held his hand up gently, motioning his men to stand down and back away.

“Lower your weapons, men. These are valued guests.” His voice rang out, and finally he climbed down the steps to come forward. John stepped forward to meet him, his old friend, in a tight, brief embrace. Soon they both had shifted back to look the other over.

“I’m sorry for the sudden intrusion, Alan. I had no way to send word that was safe, and I can hardly expect you to be able to shelter us on such short notice…” The King began, but his old friend shook his head.

“On the contrary, My Lord. I was wondering, in fact, what had taken you so long to get here. You are all welcome to stay for as long as you need asylum.” Alan announced, his eyes sweeping over the group. Honestly, they were a true sight to behold.

“I think some baths are in order. Along with food.” He decided, with an amused smirk. “Lot’s of food. Don’t you agree Rafael?” Alan asked to his right hand man, still posed on the stairs in a stoic watch over the newcomers.

As if on cue, Stiles abruptly leaned over to the side, hand fisting into his horse’s mane for stability, and emptied his stomach of his lunch onto the ground.

John winced, grimacing at Alan. The darker man simply laughed and clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Bath’s first, it is then. Some medical attention for the young prince as well. Welcome, all.”

* * *

After the pleasantries were finished and out of the way, servants rushed forward to guide away the horses to the stables for grooming, feeding, and rest. Laura and Erica had been swarmed immediately by a group of young maidens who ushered them to the women’s Bathhouse where they would wash up and relax. Scott, Isaac, and Boyd had been hurried off similarly, to the guards quarters where they had their own baths. They’d tried to draw Derek with them as well, but the new alpha refused to leave Stiles’ side.

The prince was horrified, embarrassed at the scene he’d made by involuntarily losing his previous meal. Alan motioned John and the two lovers into the Keep instead, guiding them up a long trail of stairs. King John was directed to Alan’s personal quarters to freshen up and relax for the moment with a Servant on his heel, while Alan led Stiles and Derek to another hallway altogether. Through a door, they found themselves in what seemed to be a sort of medical room, yet at the same time it looked nearly like an Apothecary, filled with fresh and dry herbs and plants. The smell was overwhelming, and Stiles felt his stomach heave again, though he had nothing left to empty. He suffered the nausea as Alan directed two young men to fill the large copper basin with heated water from the fireplace. It took some time, but soon it was filled, and steaming lightly.

Wandering the room to keep moving instead of focusing on the way the air in the room made his head swim and his face turn green, Stiles studied the spines of some of the books, eyes widening. Derek had already realized what Stiles had just discovered.

“Alan! You’re a witch?!” Stiles declared sharply, turning on his heels. Alan shook his head a bit, and chuckled, before glancing to Derek’s imposing figure, firmly rooted in the doorway. Everything in Derek’s body screamed that he should leave this place of magick, but… He wouldn’t leave his ailing mate with a man he did not know.

“Yes and no, Stiles. I’m not technically a witch, as I do not wield or spin magick. I am simply a man who knows how to use nature’s magick in it’s basic form to heal. I’m an Emissary, not a witch.” Alan explained. He was breaking apart thin shreds of some small leaves, tossing them into the heated water of the tub. After he’d exhausted that, he raised a root of Ginger and grated a few passes of the tangy scented root into the water. “Disrobe Stiles, and come sit in the basin. It will help with your nausea.”

Stiles stepped forward, curious now as he looked into the tub, lifting a leaf. “...Catswort?” He said in surprise.

“It helps, I promise. Now hurry before the water get’s cold.” Alan turned to Derek, allowing Stiles some privacy as he stripped and climbed into the water, tiredly. The Duke didn’t seem at all surprised to see the conflicted expression on the tall Alpha’s face.

“Yes, Derek. You heard me correctly. I used to be an Emissary. In fact, I was once friends with your mother, Queen Thalia. She sought me out for advice many times before her death. You and I never had the pleasure of meeting, though, so I’m not surprised you don’t recognize me. I would recognize you anywhere though. You have the look of her.” Alan trailed off for a moment, frowning, before turning to see Stiles relaxing as best he could in the water. He walked over and pulled a stool up to the edge of the basin. Derek hesitated where he stood for a few moments, and decided he’d stay where he was, and watch. He’d trust this man for now.

“Uncle Alan…” Stiles said softly, looking at the man he’d always looked up to as a child, when he and his father had been close. “If you’re this…. Emissary, then you know about my mother? And me?” He asked quietly, swallowing hard. Alan’s face softened a little, and he nodded.

“Indeed. I knew. I’m not surprised that you didn’t know about me, though. You were too young when your mother passed, and your father had never truly believed, or approved of my practices before. I see that he’s started to have a change of heart though, which is a relief.” The elder explained. “Now, Stiles… If you’ll give me your hand, I’ll see what it is that’s afflicting you.” He leaned up a bit straighter.

Confused, Stiles raised his hand from the water without question and offered it to the other. Deaton simply turned his hand, palm facing the ceiling now, so that he could look, and see the vibrations and currents within the boy.

“Stiles, tell me, have you used your magick a lot recently?” He asked softly.

Stiles lowered his head, shame and pain across his features as he recalled what he had done.

“I… Yes. I… I killed people with it yesterday, trying to save my father.” He admitted. The Duke’s eyes took on a look of understand.

“Dangerous business, using magick for violence, even with good intention.” Alan murmured, still studying Stiles hand, though his eyes hardly moved.

“No wonder your magick is blocked, now. Such an intense and sudden use would indeed affect you negatively. That would be why you feel so weak, and empty. Am I correct in assuming this?” Wide eyed now, Stiles nodded.

“I… Yes, I do. Since after the battle, I’ve felt… hollow and disconnected… My soul hurts. Is… Is this permanent?” Stiles asked with fear in his voice now. Derek felt a pang of that fear strike through him as well. He didn’t want Stiles to feel like this forever… No matter how much he disliked magick.

“Well… The good news is that it isn’t permanent. The not-quite-as-good news, is that it’s not a real… problem. It’s not an illness or an injury you could simply whisk away with an herb or spell.” Alan let Stiles have his hand back.

“What? Wait… Then why…?” The prince was bewildered now, staring at his own hand. He saw nothing but flesh.

“You’ve blocked your own connection to the energies the Goddess has granted you, out of fear of your magick.” Alan explained evenly. “This is a problem within yourself that you’ll have to overcome. You’ve grown afraid of what you’re capable of-- what you’ll do with your magick now that you’ve tainted yourself with violence, and death. Stiles, I must inform you that witches who become Sorcerers and Evil casters… It doesn’t happen over night nor from one incident. Just because you’ve had a taste now of what your magick can do does not mean you’ve changed your path to one of darkness.” Stiles didn’t look quite convinced of that.

“Tell me, Stiles…. Did you enjoy killing those men? Did it bring you joy or pleasure of any kind?” Alan asked pointedly. Stiles stopped and thought about the question for a long time.

“No. I hated it. It felt dirty, and painful. I hurt for every single one of them that came to their end in that Arena.” He whispered quietly. Alan smiled a little bit.

“Now, does that sound to you like someone who’s about to become a dark Sorcerer?” He posed. Stiles gave a small, hopeful smile, and shook his head.

“No… No it doesn’t.”

“That’s because you are _good_ , Stiles-- and you shall always be good as long as you remember that feeling. Even though sometimes an evil is necessary to save an innocent life, that does not mean you will become evil. You do not have a heart of darkness. I believe your Mate, and your Pack, the family you’re building, they will keep you on the path of virtue, as long as you let them be your strength and your moral compass.” Stiles looked up to Derek, as if seeing him, _really_ seeing him, for the first time in days.

Derek looked tired, worried, frightened, dirty… He looked like he was hanging on by a thread, and that thread was Stiles.

Finally, there was a trickle of warmth in his chest. Just a small, faint tingle.

Maybe things would be okay after all.


End file.
